


Level Up

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Game Theory [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Gen, Jealous John, Mycroft IS the British Government
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty plots a one-two punch to take out the Holmes Brothers. Meanwhile Sherlock and Mycroft cross swords and the first seeds of the fall are sown, while John tries to cope with the return of Irene. Following on from Crossfire, but can stand alone in the context of the TSIB broadcast episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade couldn't help but smile at the scene. Sherlock was literally sitting on the back of a very annoyed looking middle aged business man, who was face down on the office carpet with his trousers down. The consulting detective had just detached a prosthetic leg, and passed it to PC Hanson. "You'll find the plates in the bottom- they've been there for the past two weeks. Get it to Anderson."

As Hanson took the leg, he looked a little startled. "How the flipping heck did you know that this is where he was hiding the crucial evidence?"

"While you were taking the office apart looking for the evidence of his forgery, I was paying attention to the fact that he was favouring his left shoulder because he's been carrying extra weight inside the prosthesis."

As the newly appointed DC left, he exchanged a startled look with the DI, and said quietly, "This has been one hell of a secondment, sir. I'm going to be so bored when I have to go back to working with Dimmock's team again. You guys get all the fun."

Lestrade's smile broadened as he watched Sherlock get up. Sergeant Donovan helped Joseph Hill to his feet, read him his rights and put the cuffs on, then took him downstairs to join the three heavies who had been disarmed and tied up by Sherlock even before the police arrived. Hanson was right. This case had been  _fun_. A serious crime indeed- some £150,000 in apparently used twenty pound notes had been uncovered by accident when a man with a briefcase had a heart attack. The Met had been stumped with no idea of who or what was responsible. Sherlock took the case and it had ended up here a week later- oh, and they had recovered well over four million pounds in forged notes before they could get out into the market.

Sherlock had been on sparkling form, and Lestrade saw that a corner had somehow been turned. Ever since that blasted bomber Moriarty, Greg had worried about the consulting detective. His injuries at the hand of the Russian gangster, then a stint in that rehabilitation clinic, followed by that odd business with the house in Belgravia, then Baker Street being broken into by the CIA- well, it had just been one thing after another to unsettle Sherlock. The depths had been reached when Lestrade went to get him on board for the Geek Killer case, and found that he'd gone missing for four days, with John, Mycroft and Doctor Cohen deeply concerned about his whereabouts and his mental health. That made Greg wary of having him involved in casework again, until he was sure that Sherlock could handle it.

So, it was really good to see Sherlock  _enjoying_  himself again. The cast on his wrist disappeared two weeks ago, and while he was standing about observing crime scenes. Lestrade had watched the methodical finger exercises going on. The spring in the younger man's step was there and the gleam in his eye as intense as ever, but he seemed steadier, calmer, more self-contained than Greg had ever known him to be. He wasn't going out of his way to be rude and irritating.  _Long may it last._

oOo

**12.38 A bit of a chase, but the crippled forger case solved. Heading home. Where are you? SH**

**12.43 You fight criminals, I fight A &E triage and then Tesco queues. Who's got the better deal here? See you back at the flat. JW**

Sherlock came in from the pouring rain, but his pace up the seventeen stairs was not the old manic haste; there was no longer any need to burn off excess energy caused by a misfiring Mind Palace. The chase to track down the forger had not been a simple one, and there had been a bit of aggro from the man's 'protection' before the police showed up, but he would not tell John about that. No visible bruising, so no need to worry him unnecessarily. The doctor had been working hard at re-establishing his credentials as a trauma physician, pulling long hours for the past two weeks at three different hospitals to get his re-certification.  He’d never be a surgeon again, thanks to an Afghan bullet, but he could work in A&E as a locum. "It's time for me to focus on other patients, Sherlock, now that you seem to be back to whatever passes as normal for you." It was a measure of the rebuilt trust between the two men that John felt able to say it.

Sherlock had just given him the calm quiet look that had become his trademark these days. "I'm  _better_  than back to normal, John. Go off and do the doctor thing you do with other people." He'd been putting some distance between them, pursuing cases on his own- in part to show John, his brother and Doctor Cohen that he was fine, that he didn't need a babysitter. He also had some bridges to repair with the Met, and Lestrade in particular.

When John asked, he would talk about the cases; and John still got involved when a back-up person handy with a gun was needed. The consulting detective wasn't shutting the doctor out- just giving him some space. As a result, their relationship had improved. Sherlock 2.0 was steadier, more self- reliant, less manic. A more mature and quieter persona came with the new Mind Palace. John relaxed a bit- for the first time in almost six months, he could step away from the role of "Sherlock's caretaker" and just be friend, colleague and flatmate.

Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft, however, had not improved. The elder brother remained suspicious and cautious about his recovery. The younger man resented the fact that his brother had decided to keep him out of the computer case.

"It wouldn't be appropriate" for a civilian to get involved with the interagency team at work on it.”

That led Sherlock to snap "just who brought the case to you in the first place, Mycroft?"

But no amount of texting or harassment had changed the mind of the minor official of the British Government. Following on from Mycroft's refusal to admit months ago that "something big" was going on, vaguely related to Moriarty, this was one rebuff too many. So, Sherlock was studiously ignoring his brother, and would not allow John even to mention that name in his presence.

Sherlock reached the top of the stairs back at 221b and came to a sudden halt outside the kitchen door. He sniffed deeply. It had been months since that particular perfume had crossed his nasal passages. The last time it was at Sir Charles Milverton's house in Hampstead Heath, where both he and John had hid behind a curtain when a woman arrived to retrieve stolen property and to kill the blackmailer.

That was the last time because the corpse on the slab at Barts had not worn the perfume. Even though the body had been washed by Molly Hooper, he should still have smelt the traces of it- but there was nothing. It was one of the reasons why he realised that the body wasn't actually hers. He hadn't been close enough to her to smell her perfume when he learned at the Battersea Power Station she was alive. Taking a couple more deep breaths now to draw in the scent that had been tailor-made for Irene Adler, he turned and looked into the kitchen, then spotted that the window was open. She wasn't in the living room. Turning and sniffing again, he started to walk slowly towards his bedroom. Behind him, he heard the downstairs door to the flat slam and the sound of John coming up the stairs. His pace told Sherlock he was carrying shopping- it made a distinct sound that he identified from the Mind Palace programme called  _John_.

Reaching his room, Sherlock pushed the door open to find the person he expected to see there. In the kitchen John arrived and dumped bags of shopping. Sherlock walked further into the bedroom and turned to look down at the bed.

Down the corridor, John saw the tension in Sherlock's shoulders and called out, "Sherlock?"

"We have a client". It was a calm reply.

John's disbelief showed: "What, in your bedroom?!" He came down the corridor and looked in, his jaw dropping when he saw the bed.

"Ohhh." In just the one word John packed so much- surprise, consternation and worry.

 _With good reason._  Sherlock contemplated the sleeping figure of Irene Adler, and considered all the possible permutations that would end up with her in his bed, asleep wearing one of his shirts. He could smell not only her perfume, but his brand of soap and shampoo on her. She'd had a shower and made herself right at home. He wasn't sure how he felt about such an intimate act. It made him decidedly uncomfortable. He brought up his Mind Palace programme on The Woman.  _Need more data_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a familiar scene, but this time from three different points of view...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, for the dialogue taken from the broadcast episode, I am indebted to the incomparable Ariane De vere, whose LiveJournal transcripts are invaluable. She deserves a CBE for services to the fandom.

Their quiet conversation did not wake the woman. John watched as Sherlock sat down on the edge of his bed. Still no movement. He then reached out to touch the sheet over the sleeping woman's shoulder. "Miss Adler." He pulled his hand back quickly as her eyelashes fluttered.

A pair of dark blue eyes opened and she smiled into the pillow. Then she closed them again, and stretched, like a cat. "Hmmmm. I so do like high thread count cotton sheets. But better on a bed than on a man." She turned and looked languidly at Sherlock, then noticed Doctor Watson in the doorway. "Oh, we have company." The tone of her voice was suggestive of an intimacy interrupted.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I have questions. Get dressed and join us in the living room." The comment was halfway between a request and an order.

She laughed and gestured at the shirt. "'I'm afraid I didn't come well equipped. So, could you hand me one of your dressing gowns?"

John frowned. "What, did you arrive without any clothes on this time, too?"

She smiled at Sherlock, ignoring John. "My dress and shoes are in the bathroom drying. I got a little wet getting here undiscovered. Your brother's surveillance teams are a bother. Speaking of which…I did you a favour and removed a certain device that was hitching a free ride on one of your brother's cameras. So, no one knows I'm here and we can have our conversation in peace."

Sherlock turned at the door. "You needn't have bothered. I use a jamming device whenever I want to keep things private."

As Sherlock went into the bathroom he could hear John putting the groceries away. He was placing the tins of beans and tomatoes into the cupboard with a little more force than usual, so Sherlock knew that he was rattled by their guest. Sherlock ignored the patterned black sheath dress hanging over the radiator, the stockings and suspenders, the heels tucked up under it to dry. Instead, the long-limbed man knelt on the tiled floor in front of the cupboard under the bathroom sink. He opened it and reached up carefully, feeling with his fingers at the back for something. He removed a small package- a padded envelope, wrapped in cling film. He emptied its contents and put the two identical Vertu phones into his suit pocket. He opened the door into his bedroom a crack and said, "I'm done in here," tossing her his dressing gown from the hook. He left by the door into the hall, heading into the living room where he sat down in his chair to watch John put the last of the groceries away. The doctor then busied himself making a cup of tea, took it to the table, steadfastly refusing to look at his flatmate. John sat stiffly, his back to Sherlock.  _He really is annoyed that she's back._  He smirked as he transferred the phone from his left pocket onto the chair, pushing it into the cushions there. He then got up to find and switch on the jamming device.

A few minutes later, Irene emerged into the living room, wearing the navy blue dressing gown over his shirt. She went and sat in Sherlock's chair, still warm from where he had been sitting only moments before. John was sitting at the table eyeing her warily, while Sherlock put the grey box with its green flashing light on the coffee table. He then took a chair on the other side of the table from John.

Sherlock knew that he would have to handle the conversation carefully. John had no idea the extent of his previous contact with Irene, nor how much he knew about her situation with Moriarty. As far as John knew, Sherlock had believed Irene to be dead when he identified her body on the slab on Christmas Eve, when in fact he had known that she had faked her death in the hope of throwing Moriarty off her trail. The idea had been to disappear, to protect not only her own life, but that of her lover, Kate. Her return suggested that something fundamental had changed.

"So who's after you?" he asked bluntly.

"People who want to kill me."

"Who's that?" Of course he knew, but he wanted  _her_  to tell John, so that the gap between what he knew and what the doctor knew would narrow. Although six months ago it had seemed sensible to keep his contacts with the woman secret from John, he felt more uncomfortable about it now.

Her answer was disappointingly vague. "Killers."

John wasn't satisfied with that answer either. "It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific."

Sherlock realised that she did not want to mention Moriarty, so he reluctantly decided John needed to be diverted from this line of enquiry. "So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them."

"It worked for a while."

"Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore me." He needed to communicate to Irene the fact that he wanted John included.

"I knew you'd keep my secret." Of course, the secret she meant was that Sherlock had deduced she was alive, given that the body on the slab wasn't her- but John didn't know that. Irene was looking at him as if John wasn't even in the room. And yet, every sentence was carefully crafted in the knowledge that he was there, so she was being even more elliptical than usual.

He decided that he needed to puncture that smugness. "You couldn't."

"But you did, didn't you? Where's my camera phone?" She was as capable as he was of diverting attention away from topics she didn't want to discuss.

John replied. "It's not here. We're not stupid." John was trying to reassert his presence. And his deliberate use of the 'we' was telling.

Irene addressed her question to Sherlock. "Then what have you done with it? If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you." The sub-text here was plain to the consulting detective- her being there was risky, so don't play around.

He gave her a look that said,  _don't be an idiot_. "If they've been watching me, they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago." Of course, he had known that Moriarty was watching. The man would be a fool not to do so. That's why Sherlock had moved the phone occasionally, whilst also conducting extensive research into how he might break into it.

Irene wasn't going to give up easily. "I need it."

As if that were all it took- just that she  _needed_  it, and he was expected to hand it over. If it had been in the bank and it was being watched, then her request would be tantamount to asking for Moriarty to intercept him, the same way that Milverton had when he was sent to retrieve it for her from St Pancras Hotel. He'd been mugged. _In more ways than one_. Sherlock could see from her eyes that she clearly didn't buy the idea that he had parked it in the bank.

Unfortunately, John was slower on the uptake, and had thought that was exactly where it was. "Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?" He then proceeded to give a long explanation of how Molly Hooper could collect it and then one of the homeless network could bring it to Speedy's for one of the staff to bring it up the back fire escape.

Sherlock just smiled. It wasn't a bad idea, so he said "Very good, John. Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions" as he reached into his jacket's right pocket.

John didn't get praise from Sherlock that often so he said "Thank you" and started to find Molly's number. "So, why don't…" and then he saw the Vertu in Sherlock's hand. "Oh, for…." The doctor did not like being made to look foolish in front of Irene.

Sherlock's work on the phone had been infuriatingly unproductive. Despite six months in which to study it, he had not found a way into the data, without running the risk of destroying the phone. Irene stood up in anticipation of getting it back into her hands. He decided to prolong the wait. "So what do you keep on here – in general, I mean?"

"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful."

John's snide, "What, for blackmail?" was a sensible accusation, given that John had also been in the room hiding behind the curtain when she showed up and killed Sir Charles Milverton, a notorious blackmailer, to retrieve it. So, it was only fair that he jumped to the obvious conclusion.

Irene looked at the doctor now, focussing on him really for the first time. "For protection. I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be." She didn't need to tell Sherlock this. He'd deduced it from even before they met.

To help John out, Sherlock asked the obvious question. "So how do you acquire this information?"

"I told you – I  _misbehave_." She was enjoying making John feel uncomfortable.

Sherlock didn't like that, and felt the time for playing games was over. So he cut to the chase. If Irene wanted the phone, and had come back from the dead, then there was something on it that was useful in her attempt to keep Moriarty at bay. So he laid his cards on the table: "But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?"

This time he got a more truthful answer from her. "Yes, but I don't understand it."

He decided to be smug. "I assumed. Show me."

Irene held out her hand for the phone. Sherlock kept it up out of her reach, using his height to advantage. "The passcode."

She didn't even blink, but continued to hold her hand out.

Sherlock decided to try the bluff. He handed her the phone.

She turned it on and typed in four characters, but the phone then beeped a warning, a sound that Sherlock had heard on two previous occasions.

When Irene said, "It's not working" he stood up and took it out of her hand. "No, because it's a duplicate that I had made, into which you've just entered the numbers one oh five eight." He walked back to his chair and pulled another Vertu from under the cushion. Smugly, he continued, "I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway." He typed the numbers in, but was rewarded with yet another infuriating warning beep as the message came up- WRONG PASSWORD. 1 ATTEMPT REMAINING. He glowered at Irene.

This time she was the one who answered smugly, "I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand."

That provoked an honest reaction from Sherlock, "Oh, you're rather good."

Irene smiled at him. "You're not so bad."

Once again, Sherlock was reminded that Irene Adler was perhaps his equal when it came to being able to think things through. True, she relied more on her ability to read people's emotional motivations than he ever would, but she had correctly deduced that he would try to trick her, and had been able to deflect it. He'd underestimated her and he found that….refreshingly interesting.

She took the phone from him, but didn't break eye contact. It was as if she was also thoroughly enjoying their little game. The conversation had more going on between the lines than what any observer might make of it.

oOo

The only observer in the room, however, was one ex-army doctor well versed in reading Sherlock. From the very beginning – seeing her in  _his_  bed, then wearing  _his_ dressing gown, treating his things as if they were her own. Well, it set off alarm bells. He didn't like Irene Adler- never had, never would. But, he was startled by what he was seeing in his friend. There was real chemistry at work between the two. "Does that make me special?" Irene had asked that when he had discovered she had been sexting Sherlock without getting a reply. Back then he'd said, "I don't know, maybe." Now, however, the electricity in the room told him the answer- and it scared him.

"Hamish". He blurted it out. He had to break Sherlock's concentration

They both turned to look at him, startled by the  _non sequitur_.

"John Hamish Watson – just if you were looking for baby names." Irene got the point instantly, but John saw Sherlock's confused frown, and wondered whether his friend realised the sexual nature of the chemistry that was at work. Not for the first time, John found himself confused about what drew Sherlock to Irene Adler.

John was annoyed that Irene decided to ignore him, focusing all her concentration on Sherlock. "There was a man – an MOD official. I knew what he liked." She walked far enough away from them so that they wouldn't see the password she was typing. "One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it."

She handed the phone to Sherlock. "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen – can you read it?"

John watched Sherlock sit down on the other side the table from him to look at the photo, his attention so totally focussed on the screen that all he could manage was a terse, "yes."

Irene continued. "A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it – though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn't figure it out."

John was bemused that Sherlock was trying to block her comments out, leaning forward to concentrate on the screen. She didn't take the hint, but started to lean in over his shoulder, even closer. "What can you do, Mister Holmes? Go on, Impress a girl." John knew that his friend wouldn't be able to resist an invitation to show off ( _Showing off is what I do, John)_.

John had seen some signs recently of the new hyper-awareness that seemed to be a feature of Sherlock's new Mind Palace. It was at work now. By the time Irene had finished leaning in to whisper her challenge, John could tell by the dilation of his friend's pupils that he had already solved it. Sherlock's attention was interrupted as he glanced at her, a little annoyed at the distraction as she intruded further to kiss his cheek, but his eyes then went straight back to the screen. John revised his opinion that there was a sexual element to his attraction to her- that kiss annoyed Sherlock.

But, it didn't stop him from enjoying the intellectual challenge she had set. In rapid fire words, Sherlock unleashed his deductive conclusion: "There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds."

John was utterly stunned, trying to follow the logic. Sherlock looked at John's blank face in front of him, then glanced round at Irene who hasn't even fully straightened up yet. John took some comfort that she looked as flummoxed as he felt.

Sherlock was condescending to her. "Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look: there's no letter 'I' because it can be mistaken for a '1'; no letters past 'K' – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter 'K' or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport."

Sherlock stood up and lowered the phone, looking down on Irene. John was reminded again of her attraction to him- Irene's gaze was unfettered admiration.

This provoked a rather abrupt comment from the detective. "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."

John wasn't sure whether he appreciated the comment. Or, was Sherlock basically saying that his admiration was more important than hers? He hoped so. He remembered her comment about jealousy. No, it wasn't jealousy, more an attempt to protect Sherlock from The Woman's wiles.

But her next words made her attraction more blatant and worried John. In a husky voice she said, "I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

Sherlock's confusion about The Woman's comment could not be clearer, however. It was like her statement was in some bizarre code he didn't understand, and it took him ages – far longer than it had to crack the proper code- before he responded. John wondered what that said about Sherlock.

oOo

 _I am an idiot. Certifiably stupid._  Irene realised that she should have asked Sherlock outright about the code months ago. If she had known then that he was willing to answer it so easily, without requiring anything from her in exchange, then she would not be in the position of having to ransom Kate from the clutches of that awful Irishman now. But, she had believed her Professor of Mathematics, that it would take ages for anyone apart from Moriarty to crack it. As the stream of deductions poured out of the tall dark-haired man in front of her, she realised that she was in the presence of someone who was not only Moriarty's intellectual equal, but might actually be smarter. Fortunately for her, he was also naïve. She held his gaze as she watched him finally come to the conclusion that her comment was a compliment rather than an invitation to actually engage in intercourse on the table in front of his flatmate. It was to the doctor that he spoke next. "John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I'm right?"

The doctor was out of his depth about what was being communicated non-verbally between Irene and Sherlock. He replied "Uh-huh. I'm on it, yeah," clearing his throat, and starting to type on his laptop.

While they waited for confirmation, Irene was thinking about the extraordinary package that was Sherlock Holmes.  _You sweet man- did you answer just because I asked? Surely you know this is important information, if Moriarty is willing to kill me for it? _Irene was still trying to digest why Sherlock had just handed over the code.

His brow was furrowed as he held her gaze and said quietly, "I've never begged for mercy in my life."

"Twice" was her emphatic reply- as in, you are worthy of complimenting twice over, first for cracking it and second for giving it to me. There was a subtext going on, based on all their previous contacts. She knew that Sherlock was giving her this information for a reason- and possibly because he had deduced that she had been given no choice. Neither of them really knew the full significance of it. Why would a plane going from London to Baltimore be  _so_  important? She realised that both of them were pawns, being kept out of the real battle going on between Moriarty and his brother. Those two  _did_  know what the code meant. Maybe for that reason, Sherlock was just fed up with being kept in the dark. As she was. Only her need to free Kate meant that she had to share this information with their mutual enemy. Nevertheless, it felt like a betrayal.  _Your trust saves me and my Kate. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wish it was otherwise._

Watson interrupted again- it seemed to be an annoying habit of his. She wished she could have spoken freely, and she would have if he hadn't been there. But, his _morals_  couldn't be trusted to be on the same wavelength as hers and Sherlock's. Seven months before he had made it clear that he wanted to keep some things private between the two of them, to protect the doctor.

The blond man stuttered "Uh, yeah, you're right. Uh, flight double oh seven." That broke Sherlock's concentration on Irene.

"What did you say?" He turned toward the doctor with an intensity that caught her by surprise.

The doctor repeated himself. "You're right."

"No, no, no, after that. What did you say after that?" The question surprised Irene; this was from a man who made a big point about how he hated to repeat himself.

"Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven."

The effect on Sherlock surprised Irene even more. He literally pushed her out of the way and began to pace, muttering to himself, "Double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven ..."

While he was concentrating on that and the doctor was watching him, Irene decided it was time to exercise a skill she had taught herself years ago- how to use the Vertu's qwerty keyboard behind her back. She found the key she knew would bring up the number last called seven months ago, and began to type:

**747 TOMORROW 6:30PM HEATHROW**


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft took a deep breath and stretched. It had been a long day. Looking out over the deer park from the dining room windows, he decided that he deserved a night in the country. Tomorrow would be challenging enough. The house had proved its worth, yet again, as a premise leased by the British Government to hold small confidential events for very important people who needed both security and privacy. This time it had been the venue for a very private meeting of the G8 Security Advisers. It was the UK's turn to host, and bringing it here to his own ancestral home made a point he needed to make to the others.

Balancing the competing agendas of so many different nations had not been easy. He had to walk a careful line between playing the role of a helpful intermediary while avoiding being seen as a manipulative force pursuing his own agenda, which, of course, he was. The French were annoyed with their American counterparts- "How dare you use illegal surveillance to trap one of our politicians into the humiliation of a rape trial in New York?"  _Of course, the CIA spies on you; they spy on everybody._  But he held his tongue. It was a case of French  _amour proper_  that needed his conciliation skills. Then there were the Russians, at loggerheads with the Americans because of the cancellation of an important summit.  _Then don't offer asylum to one of their military whistle blowers, idiots_. Of course, he didn't say that, but used his diplomatic skills to broker a compromise. He'd even found something meaningful for the Italian and Canadian security people to do, so they would not feel as useless as they generally did at such events, in the presence of the superpowers and the other dominant powers in the world. He always wondered at how on earth they had talked themselves into the G8 in the first place.

The layout of the dining room suited his purposes perfectly- forget round tables, this was a long rectangular table of Jacobean oak. His chair at the head of the four hundred year old piece of furniture commanded the room. It was helped by the full suits of mounted armour on both side of the room- yet another tangible expression of just who they were dealing with.  _My family has been serving Crown and Country continuously in war and peace for centuries, before some of your countries were even born._  It was the arrogance of the aristocracy combined with the ruthless direction of purpose that he wanted to emphasise.

The morning schedule of meetings had been demanding enough, but in the afternoon there was still time for his all-important bilateral meeting with the US National Security Adviser. At long last, he had good news to report- and that was one of the reasons why the G8 meeting had been scheduled for today- to give the man a legitimate reason to be in the UK. Tomorrow night, Bond Air would finally get airborne. The plane had been readied; the bodies were being transported and loaded tonight. When the terrorist code had first been broken by GCHQ, the gold mine of data it provided needed to be protected, at all costs. Despite budgetary constraints and constant interference by the dolt of a Cabinet Secretary, the joint US-UK project was now in the very final stages. The cracked code revealed more than seven months ago that this flight would be targeted and the date the bomb would be placed.

But, if anyone thought faking a terrorist bomb on a plane would be a simple exercise, they needed their heads examined. Not only did the dead bodies to serve as victims need to be found, they had to be given back stories, historical documentation, and passport identification that would pass muster. When the world's media called looking for a passenger roster, it had to look real, even though every name was manufactured. When they wanted quotes from grieving relatives, they needed to be given contact numbers that would be answered by CIA operatives briefed with exactly the right message to give.

It had to appear to everyone watching that this was a genuine incident. Not only because that would protect against the terrorists realising their code had been cracked, but a mid-air catastrophe caused by a terrorist bomb would suit a US administration keen to justify the huge budget being spent on Homeland security.  _Two birds killed by the same bomb_ , was Mycroft's original assessment.

That meant the plane had to be real, and the flight needed to look like every other flight leaving Heathrow. The fact that the terrorists would plant their bomb in four suitcases to be loaded by a baggage handler who was one of their cell meant that the plane had to go to a proper Heathrow gate and have bags loaded from passengers who never actually checked in physically. Air crew composed of his people would wear the uniforms and board the plane in one door and go out the other, so those in the departure lounge areas would not be suspicious. The rest of his people would take the role of passengers, so they too would be seen entering the gate area and leaving through the air-bridge, presumably to board the plane, but exiting via the catering trucks that would ensure no one saw them leave. Absolutely nothing had been left to chance. Faking the flight recorder had proved particularly challenging- it took hundreds of man-hours to figure out how to fake the data in a black box that was supposed to be tamper-proof. They needed to ensure that the recovery would find the data without the tell-tale information about the auto-pilot.

As his PA came back into the room, he turned away from the windows.

"That's the last one despatched to Heathrow, sir."

Mycroft put his empty tea cup back on the sideboard. "I've sent the boys and girls home for the afternoon, my dear. That includes you, too. Get one of the drivers to take you back to London."

"You'll be staying the night here then?"

"Yes. Useful every once in a while to remind the estate staff that this is still a home. The Government lease might not last forever."

She tilted her head. "When you retire, sir?"

He rolled his eyes at that. "Hopefully, not soon; I'm not  _that_  old."

If his response was a bit acerbic, she didn't let it bother her. "Well, it's been nice to get out of London for a while. All this…reminds one that there are other priorities."

"Do enjoy the time off, my dear. I am assuming that your blackberry is not surgically attached, so do turn it off for a while. You and the rest of the team will need a good night's sleep before tomorrow." They both knew that, after seven months of work, in just over twenty four hours, the preparations would be over and the show would finally get underway. As soon as Flight 007 took to the air at 6.30 pm on its way to BWI airport in Maryland, they would all be on a 24 hour shift in a control room to manage the consequences of the explosion four hours out from Heathrow.

The whole process had been a nightmare of precision planning, leaving nothing to chance. And it had been hideously expensive. His Security & Intelligence Service Liaison Team had been selected to mastermind the project because the Americans did not trust MI 5 or 6 to be free of "moles" planted by the terrorists. It stretched his resources unbearably, and raised the stakes of the project enormously. Mycroft's innate caution screamed about the risk involved ( _too many eggs in this one dangerous basket_ ), but his objections had been overridden. The only serious blip had been when the MOD man had been caught doing something silly with a tiny bit of data relating to the project- that's when the Americans demanded that his service take on  _sole_  responsibility for it. So, quite simply,  _everything_  was riding on the success of this operation- his personal reputation and the future of his small, but perfectly formed team that he had built up over the twenty years of his career.

After he watched her car leave, he stood and thought through the final checklist. As the shadows lengthened on the lawn, his mobile phone on the table rang. He turned to pick it up, wondering if his PA had forgotten something and was ringing to tell him yet another detail. He frowned at the screen because he did not recognise the caller number. A text had come in on his personal number- something very few people had. He hoped it wasn't something from Sherlock- he didn't need the distraction tonight. He'd worked very hard to keep his brother at arm's length from this operation and from anything that might remotely be dangerous. He opened the text-

**4.38pm    Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me. JM**

For a moment, Mycroft forgot to breath. Then his body caught up with his brain and he drew a ragged gasp of horror, before training kicked in and he shut down any emotional reaction.  _No time for panic; I have only a few seconds to decide what to say in reply, if anything._  He used those seconds carefully. Moriarty- the only "JM" that he could think of in this context.  _He_   _knew_. He had no time now to find out why or how the project had been compromised- it didn't matter in the final analysis. If the flight left the ground and was allowed to explode, then the Irishman would expose the truth and then every conspiracy theorist in the West would feel vindicated- this was yet another example of the intelligence services committing atrocities and then trying to pin it on the terrorists that they needed to justify their ridiculous ambitions. It was the 9/11 twin tower conspiracy all over again.  _Only this time, they'd be right._  With exceptions, of course. Nobody would actually die and the greater good was served by keeping the fact that their code had been broken from the terrorists. Now Moriarty could do that anyway, even if the flight was cancelled.  _He holds all the cards._ In seconds, Mycroft had understood the challenge, calculated the odds and come up with a plan.  _Stall._

**4.41pm    I'm listening.**

He didn't include his initials. That affectation was pointless- the man was calling on his personal line, for God's sake. He sat down at the dining room table, and ran his hands over his face, as if to calm himself. Then he waited to see if this would be a negotiation, or a simple execution of Mycroft's career.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft's phone rang two minutes later. He hit the green key, opening the connection and waited silently. He was going to wait, and make Moriarty take the first step. He heard someone on the other end breathing softly. Then a series of tuts. "Oh, dear. Mister Holmes, what a shambles you've got yourself into- almost makes me feel sorry for you." The Irish accent did nothing to soften the fact that the tone was almost gleeful.

"Name your terms." This was delivered in Mycroft's calmest, coldest tone.

That provoked a laugh. "Oh, no, no, no; it's not going to be that eeeasy. I've waited  _far_  too long for this moment to rush it. In fact, I might just end this call and make you sweat a teensy bit more."

That would not serve Mycroft's purpose "The time it takes to come to terms does not matter to me in the slightest. However fast or slow, you know that the plane will never leave the ground now. So, why go to the trouble of calling me if you are not going to open the discussion?" He gave the question an almost bored intonation.

"Oh, this is not a  _discussion_. It's a  _gloat_."

"How tedious." This was definitely boring.

There was a huff. "You really know how to hurt a guy's feelings, Holmes. Or should I call you Lord Holmes? I've never bothered to acquire a proper member of the English aristocracy before. Life peers don't count. You are a trophy, you know. Does that butter up your ego enough?"

"You haven't 'acquired' anything yet, Mister Moriarty. That's what we are supposed to be discussing."

"Then think about the timing of this little conversation. I've let you go as far along as possible- right in up to your blue-blooded neck. Public money has been spent, resources consumed. Promises to allies have been made, and, why, I'll just bet that today you've told your brethren across the pond that 'it's all systems go'." He said the last as if he was someone on a NASA space launch, the American accent twang just perfect for Houston Control.

"I mean, I think I deserve just a  _little_  recognition for my exquisite sense of timing. It's all so perfect that when you do pull the plug, it will cause the maximum damage to your reputation. Not 'tedious', Holmes, it's marvellously meticulous."

"What would you require to let the flight go ahead?" Mycroft didn't for a single moment think it was possible, but he wondered if it was greed that was motivating the master criminal. He had never met him, never looked into his eyes to understand what made the man tick.

"There is  _no_  possibility of that happening, and both you and I know that, so don't insult my intelligence. We both know where this is going. I can offer you a plausible story that would explain the decision to cancel at this last minute. The Yanks won't like it but they won't demand  _you_  take the blame. You'll be damaged, but not destroyed. I don't want your head on a pike, Mycroft Holmes- I want you to do that voodoo you do so well- just  _for_  me, instead of against me. The ultimate fallen angel, able to protect me, because I protect you."

"I am slightly puzzled by all this, Mister Moriarty. What leads you to believe that I would ever be so selfish as to put protecting my own reputation and position over the needs of the country?

Moriarty sniffed. "So, you're a willing martyr then, happy to fall on your sword to protect Queen and Country? How boring."

Mycroft's retort was positively frosty. "All careers end. But, you will need to explain why I should do anything other than resign. Nor have you actually explained why anyone would hold  _me_  personally responsible for whatever breach led you to discover the truth about the plane."

"Oooh- you're fishing! How  _quaint_. Is that how you negotiate in the corridors of power? If so, then you need to know that you've only got half the story. So, before I ask you for your soul, don't you want me tell you the worst of it?"

That piqued Mycroft's curiosity, which, of course, was exactly what the Irishman wanted. But, it would not do to be too obvious. Mycroft decided to attack on the flank- a distraction tactic. "Why would  _you_  want to help the terrorist cause? I thought your area of expertise was simply criminal, rather than political. Or, have they _hired_  you?"

The subtext in those sentences was so very, very clear- and designed to irritate. The "simply criminal" was the ridicule of one who played on a geopolitical chess board of nation states, who thought common criminality beneath him. The comment about being for "hire" was the condescension of the English aristocracy for anyone so base as to be involved in "trade". Both comments were designed to press a few buttons, to see if he could rattle the Irishman.

Jim giggled. "Careful. Your prejudices are showing,  _old boy_. If you think you can get me to underestimate you as some upper class twit, then try to pull the other one. I won't be deflected. You won't be  _allowed_  to resign. You are far too useful for me right where you are. So, no act of sacrifice on your part."

"How could you possibly stop me?"

Moriarty laughed. "Oh, my-  _this_  is what I've been waiting for! When at last you realise that I'm smarter than you are. OK, are you ready? On your marks…get set….GO! Here's the first grenade I'm lobbing in your direction. Whatever excuse you concoct to explain why you are cancelling the flight, if you don't agree to the terms I set, then I will let the truth out. And it will come not from me. Oh no, that's far too unsubtle. No, it will be thrown at you from across the pond. Play the game my way, or the Americans will say it's all your fault that the 'Special Relationship' is no longer special. Even if you were to resign, the toxic fallout remains behind. The Brits can kiss goodbye any sharing of American intelligence in the future. And it will have  _your_  fingerprints all over it."

Mycroft did a risk assessment on the likely consequences of trying to tough it out. If the CIA blamed him, and it escalated to the NSA and the Presidency, then the knock-on loss of intelligence from the Americans would devastate the UK's security services and the Foreign Office. The British punched above their weight in the international arena simply because they were recognised as being unimpeachably better at espionage than their American 'cousins'. If that reputation were to be tarnished, and the flow of raw data coming in from the USA to be choked off, then the consequences would not be confined to the back rooms. It was a serious threat that altered the UK's position in geopolitics.

The Irishman wasn't done. "So, while you're mulling over that little explosion, let me pull the pin on my second grenade and roll it across the table at you. Want to know  _who_  gave me the meaning of Flight 007? It was none other than your baby brother. Of course, his gorgeousness didn't  _realise_  he was giving it to me- it was just a little love token from him to The Woman, breaking that MOD man's code. The Dominatrix seems to have dominated him right into submission."

Mycroft did not trust himself to speak.  _Sherlock, what have you done?_ The idea- that the whole project had been scuppered by Sherlock's blunder made Mycroft's personal exposure increase exponentially. But it was worse than that. Mycroft would lose his career, no doubt. But for Sherlock, exposure would be even more devastating. He'd never be able to work again for the Met. No private client would ever work with him. Mycroft found himself wondering just how long it would take for the isolation and inaction to destroy his brother's new found equilibrium.

"Ah, do I catch the scent of blood, Holmes? Have I just nicked a little artery? How long do you think your brother would survive if he has every door slammed in that gorgeous face? Hmmm- if it's on the front page of every tabloid that the man is a traitor selling secrets to terrorists, well- it's not just  _your_  reputation, is it? Who knows, if he can't work that marvellous brain of his, then he might well come and work for me."

Moriarty's triumphant sneer dripped from every syllable, and he carried on in the same vein. "You call this a 'negotiation'; I call it 'surrender'. Your brother is the hostage that I hold over you. You will  _not_  resign. You  _will_  use the excuse I give you to cancel the flight. You  _will_  become one of my dark angels- there to be called upon whenever I need some assistance or a blind eye. And if you don't, then I will destroy not only you and the Special Relationship, but I will burn the heart out of your brother, destroy him piece by piece, inch by inch right in front of your very eyes and in the full glare of public scrutiny, until there is nowhere else for him to go except up a needle of cocaine or come work for me- _and it will be your fault_."

The voice on the other end of the phone halted to draw breath. Then, "Welcome to the dark side, Mycroft Holmes."

 _Stall; get some time to consider what on earth can be used as a counter-measure._  Mycroft kept his voice absolutely calm. "Don't congratulate yourself too soon, Moriarty. I need time to consider this."

"Oh, poor Ice Man. Feeling the heat a bit?" His voice took on a cartoonishly false sympathetic tone. Then came the snarl- "I can afford to be generous. It's not like you can do anything to stave off the inevitable. I  _KNOW_ you _._ You will meet my terms, because you are arrogant enough to think you can outsmart me. So, be my guest; take your time. I'll call back in an hour." The line went dead.

Stunned, Mycroft realised he was sweating.  _How banal_. His body was betraying him. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and poured himself a brandy from the sideboard, taking a sip. He returned to the head of the table and sank into the chair again.

Lord Mycroft Holmes, the Viscount Sherrinford, put his elbows on the table and folded his hands in front of his mouth. Wide eyed, he started to think, to  _really_  think, as if his own life and that of his brother depended on it- because they did.


	5. Chapter 5

John and Irene watched Sherlock pacing, repeating "Bond Air" under his breath.

"What do you mean,  _Bond Air_?" Irene was confused. Why would the flight number send the man into this sort of fugue state? She didn't get it.

Sherlock totally ignored her; it was as if she hadn't spoken. No, it was worse, as if she wasn't even in the room. Instead he suddenly turned to the doctor. "John, you were there. You remember him saying it- 'Bond Air is Go'. Mrs Hudson was there, too. There is a link. It's the  _something big_ ….but what? What is it?"

Then he had grabbed his violin, sank into his chair, and gazed off into the distance.

"Sherlock." John's voice had a tinge of concern in it. Sherlock had placed the violin in his lap, and he began to mindlessly pluck the same three notes, over and over again – a very slow pizzicato tattoo that got very tedious very fast. The doctor stood in front of the chair, trying to make eye contact with his friend. When there was no response, he reached down and put a hand on the suited shoulder. Not even a flinch. He sighed.

Irene was watching with some concern. "What's wrong with him?"

The doctor signed again. "Nothing. He does this. Sort of 'checks out' and disappears into his Mind Palace."

"A mind what?" Now she really was concerned.

"Mind Palace- that's what he calls his memory. He remembers things that you and I would never even consider important. He has a photographic memory when he wants to keep something; otherwise, he deletes things he doesn't think are important."

"Such as?"

"Who the prime minster is. Anything to do with popular culture. For God's sake, he even deleted the fact that the earth goes around the sun, because he didn't think it mattered." John was standing now, rubbing the back of his neck wearily.

She looked at Sherlock and then back at John. "Really?"

John nodded. "Really- but don't mention that one, please. I shouldn't have told you. He gets a little sensitive about it ever since I was stupid enough to put it into my blog."

She got up and walked over to the seated consulting detective. She waved her hand in front of his face, but there was absolutely no reaction. "You sure he's alright?"

John nodded. "Yeah. Annoying it may be, but he's okay. He might be there for hours. When he comes out of it, he will have no idea how long it's been. But in the meantime, he will have figured something out that no one else in a million years would ever put together. It's what he does."

While the doctor was talking, The Woman was thinking. When she was playing dead in the south of France, Irene had spent six months trying to pretend that all this was behind her. That happy idyll was shattered when that creepy Moran had taken Kate. She had to hope that the Irishman would honour his promise to release Kate when she finished doing his bidding. Irene wished she could just leave the flat on Baker Street now, collect Kate and run for cover as far away as possible. Now that she had her phone back, she'd be able to protect herself from the people who would want to hurt her. But she knew that there wasn't a chance in hell of that happening. Moriarty was determined to go all the way with this one. She knew that the Irishman wanted her to deliver the final part of her original bargain- the humiliation of the Ice Man. She had gone along with the plan originally because she thought that when the code was broken, she'd understand what it meant and be able to use it to cut her own deal with Mycroft Holmes. Unless she knew exactly what the flight meant, she was never going to be able to stop being Moriarty's pawn. But, conversely, if she knew too much, she'd be a liability that needed to be silenced. She had not understood that at the start; she did now. It was a terrible dilemma.

Irene really needed privacy with Sherlock; she had to find a way to get Doctor Watson out of the way, so they could talk freely about what the code meant and why Moriarty wanted it. She focused on the blond man who was eyeing her suspiciously. She decided to force the issue, especially if it annoyed him. "So, Doctor Watson, do you think he is working out exactly how a flight from London to Baltimore can save the world?"

He just glared back at her. "If anyone can, he can. He is amazing, and I'd appreciate it if you would leave him alone."

That brought a smile to her lips. "Oh, so you  _are_  jealous."

He shook his head. "You don't get it, do you? You don't really get him, either. He's not interested in…" he sort of ran out of steam for a moment. Then he resumed "…what it is you do for a living- misbehaving, you exploiting what people  _like_." He was being protective; she could see it a mile away.

"Don't  _exploit_  him." It was said with some menace.

She smiled wickedly. "Oh, my dear Doctor Watson, I already have- and, what's more, he agreed to it."

He looked stunned. "What do you mean?"

"What he  _likes_  is solving puzzles that no one else can. And he's done it for me before, not just this time. He's  _brilliant._  And sweet, but you can just calm down. I'm not going to eat him alive." She was smiling slightly as she watched emotions chase themselves over Watson's face. She continued. "You don't like me. I  _get_  that- and you are entitled to your opinion. But…" she looked over at the consulting detective sitting in the leather and chrome chair, still plucking the violin. "…he  _does_  like me _._ Have you ever thought how rare that might be for him- to actually  _like_  someone? It's a little selfish of you if you take offense when he finally decides he just might be interested in someone other than you."

John reacted like he'd been slapped.

Her smile broadened. "He's more than capable of looking after himself; he doesn't need you to be a nanny. You know the saying, three's a crowd."

He bristled a bit at that. "I don't trust you."

"But  _he_  does." She said it smugly.

The poor man was still trying to figure out what to say to that when she continued. "More than you think, too. We've met up twice before, when I wasn't playing dead, occasions that you don't know about. He knows you don't like me, so he kept it our little secret. He didn't want you to be upset." She was insinuating more than had actually happened, so the doctor would jump to the conclusion that their secret meetings were of a more romantic nature than they had actually been. That was how John Watson worked, and she saw no reason to explain differently.

John broke off staring at her, and looked at his flatmate as if seeing him for the first time.

She was relentless. "So, Doctor Watson, why don't you be a good  _friend_  and disappear for the rest of the night? Don't  _you_  have a girlfriend's to go to? Sherlock and I have… some things to catch up on."

The doctor gave a sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, still looking at Sherlock. Then, "Five hours. I will be back at 11." He took his jacket off the peg, but turned back again at the door. "If you hurt him, I will find you. Just so you know."

As she heard the door to 221b shut, she breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, Sherlock had never told the doctor about the links between her and Moriarty. Nothing about Kate, nor about the puzzle she set him. If Watson knew any of that, then he'd never leave Sherlock alone with her. She'd taken a risk and it had paid off. Now all she had to do was wait for Sherlock to solve it and to tell her just what she needed, and no more. Then she'd be able to finish the game and get out of London forever.

 


	6. Chapter 6

As the sunset and the windows behind him darkened, Mycroft did not notice. He was deep in his Mind Archive, trying to piece together some semblance of a plan. He had deduced fairly rapidly that Moriarty's "excuse" to call the flight off would be some piece of evidence, conclusive to be sure, that showed the terrorists knew the code had been broken, and that they were only waiting for the plane to explode before launching their PR attack on the conspiracy between the CIA and the UK's intelligence services. That would be the only way to get out of a cancellation at this late a stage without harming Mycroft. The evidence would also have to be buried somewhere in the CIA's sources, so it would be "their" fault that it had not been found. If Mycroft could be seen to be the one who saved the Americans from themselves, then his reputation would not be harmed, but rather helped. The cost of cancellation would be ruinously high, but it would be the Americans' fault, not his.

He had deduced this simply because this is what he would have done if he'd been in Moriarty's place.  _He will want to protect my reputation so I can be of more use to him as one of his fallen angels._  He had always detested that phrase, even though he knew that there were plenty of otherwise good and decent people who had been "collected" by the Irishman over the years. Never had he dreamed that he might become one of them.

He also knew that Moriarty was right- a simple resignation would not be allowed. The consulting criminal would hold Sherlock's destruction over his head like a sword of Damocles. A retired Mycroft would be of no use to the man, so he would not be allowed to escape that way.

He'd loosened his tie and had spent the last hour trying to find a way to use the truth- could he concoct a way to make Moriarty the cause of the cancellation, and that Mycroft had found out and stopped the man's plan? That led him down permutations of plans, most involving him in arranging a meeting and then capturing the Irishman. But that idea died with the realisation that the man's contingency plans would then kick into effect- and the escalation of crimes resulting would inevitably lead to his release. Beside which, that idea would leave Sherlock fatally exposed. Moriarty would sing to any interrogator just who had compromised Bond Air. There was no hope of a full frontal attack, unless he wanted to ensure his brother's destruction, and then the demise of his own career. If he could have sacrificed his career in exchange for putting Moriarty out of business once and for all, Mycroft would have taken the deal. Unfortunately for him, his wasn't the only head on the chopping block.

He thought about the likely consequences for Sherlock, if he decided to resign, to take the personal consequences of disgrace, or worse. He would not be able to protect his brother. If Moriarty didn't release the truth, then the investigation would find it anyway. He tried to avoid imagining what Sherlock would do if he could never work again on cases. It wouldn't take long before that extraordinary mind just tore itself to pieces. He knew that he would do almost anything to avoid that happening. No matter how many times Mycroft tried to pretend he didn't care, he did. No matter how many times his brother tried to push him away, he knew he wouldn't, couldn't abandon him. Moriarty had found his weakness. Mycroft lowered his head into his hands in despair. He would also have to keep this fact from Sherlock. If his brother found out that he was being used this way, there'd be no accounting what he might do. His imagination ran from the vision of Sherlock collapsing back into drug abuse, all the way to the other extreme, of what would happen if Sherlock caved in and agreed to work with Moriarty.  _No, I have to find a way out of this mess._

 _There MUST be another way._ But he knew that it would not be found quickly. The only thing he could do was the strategy he had decided in the very first moments after realising that Moriarty knew about Bond Air-  _stall._  If he bought some time, he might find a way to turn the tables.

There was a knock on the door. He didn't answer but Mrs Walters came in anyway. When she saw him sitting in the darkened room, with the brandy in front of him, she stopped. "Sir, are you…alright?" He broke off his thinking for a moment. "Yes. But I need privacy."

Her face showed her concern, but she knew her place. "Then you'll not be needing supper?"

"No. Thank you. Just privacy."

The phone on the dining table rang almost as soon as she had closed the door.

"Hello." He tried to make the tone as neutral as possible, but he let a little defeat creep into it.

"Ah, now that's such a lovely sound- I can hear surrender in that greeting. So glad that you've had a chance to realise just how skewered you are.  _GOOD_. That's just what I wanted to hear. So, I assume that you've reluctantly decided to play."

"Where is the CIA evidence that you are going to tell me about?"

There was a snigger. "Now that's just  _showing off._  Seems like a family trait, doesn't it just? Kind of  _cute_ , you two. I know you've always thought yourself so  _superior_ to your brother, but if he'd only played with me all those months ago, you might have gotten off scot-free. Because as  _useful_  as it will be to have you in my pocket, it would have been more  _fun_  to play with him. Well, who knows, I may still get you both. Now that's what I call having the cake and eating it, too. Yum, yum." Jim smacked his lips.

The playful tone of voice was then replaced by a sterner one. "Listen carefully, because I won't repeat this. You can call your people now and tell them the bad news that flight double oh seven won't be taking to the air tomorrow. Oh- and better call the Langley Lads who are at the American Embassy, too. You can tell them that you've found evidence that the terrorists know- and that the evidence has been sitting in American hands for months, but they were too stupid to realise it. Oh, joy, you get to take the President's National Security Adviser with you to an emergency COBRA meeting, where you will show them the proof that I will send you tomorrow morning. "

"Send me the proof now. They will demand it from me, and not to have it will call everything into question." Mycroft's chances would improve the more he knew.

"Don't play dumb with me, Holmes. You know just the right thing to say- 'can't reveal anything now, it could allow the mole in the CIA to cover his tracks'. For God's sake, that's why no one apart from the CIA chief has known about the flight- too many moles about. All you have to say tonight is that protocol says this has to be handled' for your eyes only at COBRA, blah, blah.' I should tell you that I have eyes and ears in that meeting, so just watch what you say and how you say it, because _Daddy will be listening_."

The thought that Moriarty had infiltrated someone sitting at the COBRA table startled Mycroft for a second, before he rolled his eyes.  _There will be TWO such people tomorrow, and I will be one of them._  "How will I recognise my fellow-traveller?"

That provoked a chuckle. "Oh, no; being on my side doesn't mean you get to know anything I don't want you to know. I want you to sweat a bit between now and then. There are still the terms of your surrender that I need to discuss. I will be sending someone to see you who is authorised to negotiate on my behalf. They will meet you at the airplane in two hours. If you're in West Sussex playing Lord of the Manor, you can make it to Heathrow in time. Text me the stand or hanger details, so I can send my emissary. Toodle-oo, cheery bye for now." And then the line went dead.

Mycroft turned the call recorder off. He had no idea whether that would ever prove a useful conversation to have recorded. But, he was still looking for a way out, and if it were to be successful, then he would need to have documented every step of the way. The only plausible story he'd been able to come up with so far was that he was allowing Moriarty to think that he'd won, in order to lure him out into the open where a mistake could provide Mycroft with the means to take him down for good. A tactical retreat to let the enemy lower his defences was acceptable.  _I've never surrendered in my life; I don't intend doing so now._


	7. Chapter 7

Irene lit a fire and sat in John's chair as the evening drew in. She got up once to close the curtains, but otherwise didn't move from the chair, or lessen her observation of the tall man sitting opposite her. The three plucked notes had continued now for slightly more than two hours. During that time, she had turned on her phone, and read the text from Moriarty that she hope to find:

**5.12pm     Nice Work- so if you do the rest, she'll soon be on her way back to Nice.**

She replied in a text that simply said

**5.17pm     I am waiting for him to come back with the whole answer.**

In the soft glow of the firelight, she watched Sherlock's impassive face. When he was like this, in deep thought, she could stare to her heart's content. She liked his strange combination of angles and curves- the sharp line of a cheekbone, the soft bow of lip. Not conventionally handsome, but somehow all the pieces fit together to make an extraordinary impact. She considered the difference between him and Moriarty. Both were geniuses. But Sherlock had warmth in all that energy of his; he burned bright and clear. She had trusted him in an instinctive way, as a polar opposite from Moriarty. For all the Irishman's brilliance, at a subconscious level she was repelled by the darkness, the coldness of his heart. For that reason alone, she had been gathering information for months about him and his network. It wasn't _misbehaving_ ; it was survival. She needed to give herself some protection against a man who once threatened to turn her into a pair of shoes. So, lists of names, fallen angels and other clients on both sides of the Atlantic who had used the services of the consulting criminal in the same way she had. If he threatened her again, she wanted to be able to tell him the consequences of damaging her. She slipped the USB stick adapter out of the dressing gown pocket; she had moved it from her handbag when she was in the bathroom. Now she downloaded the whole of the Moriarty file into the phone, and then deleted it from the memory stick, which she tossed into the flames. She had a copy elsewhere- a nice package sitting in a Swiss bank with instructions to her solicitor on what to do with it should she die.  _I think I might change the recipient of the package- send it to Sherlock as a little thank you._

She knew Sherlock was just as likely in his own way to be selfish and self-centred.  _Isn't genius always so?_  When you had that prodigious amount of intelligence, it tended to isolate you from fellow human beings. They were kindred spirits in that way, and it was unusual for either of them to acknowledge that another such as they existed.  _He's smarter than me, but a whole lot less astute._  That brought a rueful smile, as she wondered what would happen if they ever managed to work together instead of tangentially.

That thought was interrupted by the Vertu vibrating in her hand- an incoming text.

**6.58pm Call me**

She went into the loo, ran the tap and called Moriarty.

"Helloooo, Sweetie." It came in that awful synthesized gangster voice that she loathed. "You are a little minx, you know. Couldn't have bettered the timing myself. I've just had the time of my life making a certain minor British Government official very uncomfortable. Now I need you to administer the  _coup de grace._  You get to deliver the terms and conditions in person to Flight 007. It's at Skyways stand 12. I'll send a car. Is sleeping beauty still out of it?"

She flushed the loo.

"Ooh- was I interrupting something important?" He giggled.

"No, but it helps to disguise the sound of my voice" she said quietly. "No need to wake him up out of his trance."

"I thought you might do that with a kiss, knowing you, my dear."

"Save it for someone who appreciates the humour, Mister Moriarty. When I am done with Big Brother, I will text you. And then we get to part ways."

"Until next time, my dear. There will  _always_  be a next time, you know." The line went dead. She washed her hands and went back to wait, hoping that Sherlock would wake up soon. She really didn't want to do Moriarty's dirty work without knowing just what the hell was actually involved. But, if she knew too much, that might make her a target for Moriarty's distrust. It was like walking on a sword's edge- too much information could lead her into danger, too little would mean she couldn't protect herself.

She settled back in John's chair and warmed her feet by the fire.

"Coventry." Sherlock was out of the trance, saying the word as if it had great significance.

"I've never been. Is it nice?"

Sherlock looked around the room. "Where's John?"

"He went out a couple of hours ago".

Sherlock looked a bit surprised. "I was just talking to him."

She smiled. "He said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?" She knew that time was running out before Moriarty's car turned up, and she needed whatever Sherlock had come up with.

"It's a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway."

In a flash, Irene realised the connection. The plane was somehow linked to  _another_  code, one that had been broken, but that the authorities didn't want anyone to know that they'd broken it. It was a start. But why that flight? What was its significance? Before she could grapple with hat, she stopped to realise that Sherlock had done it again- he'd given her the key information, sharing it with her, because he trusted her. That fact startled her into realising that she wanted him to stop now, rather than have him betray anything more. She had taken enough advantage of him. Anything more might make Moriarty want to silence her as too dangerous. It was a difficult decision to make- curiosity meant she wanted to know.  _Curiosity killed the cat._  She needed to distract Sherlock quickly, so she did it in the only way she knew how.

"Have you ever had anyone?"

He frowned at her, not understanding. "Sorry?"

She tried to be a bit more obvious. "And when I say "had", I'm being indelicate."

He still didn't get it. "I don't understand."

 _So sweet._  "Well, I'll be delicate then." She got up and crossed to the other chair, where she knelt in front of him, putting her left hand on top of his right hand and curling her fingers around it. "Let's have dinner."

He replied warily, "Why?"

She replied. "Might be hungry."

He shook his head, "I'm not."

She smiled. "Good."

The seeming contradiction between not being hungry and still being offered dinner, plus the physical contact with her, made the man hesitant. The adorable wrinkle of confusion appeared on the bridge of his nose. But he did sit forward and turn his hand over, so his fingers went around her wrist. "Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" There was now a touch of caution in his tone.

She leaned forward, her eyes now clearly focused on those amazing lips.  _How can a man have such perfect cupid's bow lips?_ She followed it by her softest "Oh, Mister Holmes." She'd persisted in using the formal title, because he had refused to call her anything other than 'Miss Adler', as if that gave him some protection- an old fashioned courtesy to hide behind.

But she knew she was getting through, as his fingers gently stroked across to rest on the underside of her wrist.

Irene also knew that under normal circumstances, the man in front of her would resist her seduction. But she thought that it was likely to be the last time she would see him. And the feeling of regret that engendered in her surprised her. She never allowed herself to feel genuine emotions with her clients. But Sherlock wasn't a  _client_ ; he had proved to be a friend to her in so many surprising ways. She wondered if there was something she could give him back. "... if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"

The pause drew on as she watched those amazing eyes digest the question for its full implications.

Then the mood was spoiled utterly by the sound of an old woman's voice calling up the stairs- "Sherlock!"

His eyes broke from hers and turned towards the door.

She replied, ruefully, "Too late."

That provoked a tiny smile from Sherlock. "That's not the end of the world; that's Mrs Hudson."

Irene sighed, pulled her hand free and stood up. It might be that the car sent by Moriarty had arrived. She was walking away from him by the time Mrs Hudson arrived, with a black man in a sharp suit behind her.

"Sherlock, this man was at the door. Is the bell still not working?" She turned to the man and explained. "He shot it".

Sherlock ignored his landlady and spoke directly to the man. "Have you come to take me away again?"

"Yes, Mister Holmes."

Rather tersely, Sherlock replied, "Well, I decline."

The man was not deterred. He took an envelope from his jacket and offered it to the detective. "I don't think you do."

Irene watched as Sherlock snatched the envelope and opened it. From across the room, she could see that it was airline boarding pass. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to perform the deduction; she realised that it was probably for Flight 007, leaving Heathrow tomorrow night at 6.30 for Baltimore Washington Airport.  _Sent by Moriarty? Or Mycroft Holmes?_  That was the only question. She sought eye contact with the man to see if she was expected to come, as well. He ignored her, with the discretion taught to someone trained to deal with intrusions into awkward situations.  _Mycroft's man, then._

Sherlock stood and looked at her briefly. "I have to go."

She smiled, "I know. This isn't goodbye, Mister Holmes."

She watched him put on his coat and scarf, then follow the agent down the stairs and out to the waiting car. She stood at the window and watched him leave, then hurried to the bathroom, wondering if her dress and shoes had dried enough. She hoped she would have time to get her hair up before Moriarty's car arrived for her; she could always apply her make-up on the way to the plane. While the vulnerable, unadorned look worked for the younger brother, there was no way she was going to go into a conversation with the older one without looking her very sharpest.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft Holmes spent the journey between the estate and Heathrow deep in his Mind Archive. There  _had_  to be a weakness in Moriarty's plans that he could exploit. He'd bought the time he needed by calling the right people and telling them that the flight was never going to take off, that it had been compromised and that he would provide the evidence at tomorrow's hastily called COBRA meeting. That much he could agree to do; in fact, even if he managed to salvage the situation somehow and wiggle out from under Moriarty's plans, he would still have to cancel the flight and attend the meeting to explain why.  _So, I can justify to myself that I haven't fallen…yet._

He called his PA, apologised for doing so despite his best wishes to leave her in peace, and then told her to ensure that Sherlock was collected and delivered to the plane as soon as possible. Moriarty might be sending someone there to talk terms, but Mycroft was going to talk to his brother first. And that meant ditching the idea of being driven. He was now in the back seat of a helicopter that would get him to Heathrow in under forty minutes.

 _Irene Adler_. He had not counted on that name re-appearing, or the idea that the body on the slab wasn't hers, but had fooled Sherlock.  _Or had it? Would it suit his purposes to mislead me?_  He sighed, knowing that nothing would be heard over the roar of the rotors.

Although his initial reaction was one of utter rage at his brother's folly, he also knew that he was personally responsible for at least half of the mistake. It had been his idea to put Sherlock on the case. Worse still, Sherlock would never have attracted the attention of Moriarty in the first place, if it had not been the Irishman's desire to suborn Mycroft Holmes.

He needed to meet with Sherlock to find out the extent of his error. Had he been duped? Tricked into it? There was a piece of Mycroft, buried deep, that wanted to do something terrible to the Woman. This situation collided with every fear that he'd ever had for his little brother- his being taken advantage of by someone determined to hurt him, when Sherlock was not capable of understanding what was being done to him.

Or was the Woman's hold deeper; was Sherlock a willing partner? Not for the first time in his life, he found himself worrying about his brother's inexperience in sexual relationships- or, indeed, in relationships of any kind.  _Don't be alarmed._  He'd been provoked into his waspish comments at the Palace because he was mortified by his brother's outrageous behaviour in front of the Equerry. Since before Sherlock reached puberty, Mycroft had been trying to find out his brother's views on such things. People on the Spectrum were individuals, as different as neurotypicals. Some did, some didn't seek intimacy. Some were capable of normal heterosexuality, homosexuality or bisexuality. Some were asexual. Some became obsessed with a person who did not reciprocate, calling it love, when it was more a symptom of their fixations and addictions.  _Which is it for you, brother?_

Sex was something that Sherlock would not talk about to  _anyone._  Now that Mycroft knew more about what had happened when Sherlock was fifteen, he had some sympathy with the idea that his brother just might not want to go there. And. when he was homeless on the streets for six months aged seventeen, it wascertainthat he'd had some experience- none of which could have been pleasant. He remembered the boy's defiant comment, "Cocaine is expensive". That was the transactional reaction he expected from Sherlock, especially at that age. But, what the grown man felt now was a closely guarded secret.

It worried him. Mycroft had never known how to even broach the subject. Of course, Sherlock knew all the mechanics. The physiological processes of intimacy had been taught to him early. His mother knew this would be a challenge, and when she knew she was dying, she spent a good bit of the time she had left trying to put in place the building blocks. She'd taught him what was appropriate to do in public and what wasn't. At least that had not been an issue, if Sherlock's school reports were to be believed. It wasn't the  _science_  that Sherlock misunderstood; it was the understanding of it from a social relationship point-of-view.

For someone who had never had a friend, it would be challenging to understand how a friend could become a lover. Even when he was on the streets, Sherlock would have thought of sex as simply a means to the end of getting and paying for drugs. Once in Rehab, the therapists had tried to deal with the fall-out, but Mycroft had never known how to talk about it. It was perhaps the hardest part of his brother being on the Spectrum, and Mycroft was just unable to figure out how best to help, especially when their relationship deteriorated when Sherlock was in his twenties. They'd scarcely exchanged a dozen civil words about  _any_  topic, so the idea of discussing sex was just ridiculous.

So, what had The Woman done to him? How had she twisted him around her finger until he willingly did her bidding, to the extent of solving the MOD code? Was it a form of sexual abuse? The thought brought a physical reaction of pain across his chest, and Mycroft had to take several deep breaths to calm himself.

With hindsight, he realised that it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, putting Sherlock into the frame when the Royal Household needed his help. It was supposed to keep him miles away from Moriarty; instead, perversely, it had exactly the opposite effect. And now it would be his own undoing. Mycroft had always known his brother was his weakness; he could hear the echo of his father's comment: " _Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft, he isn't worth it. You have more important things to do than look after someone who can't look after himself."_

And yet he had. Cared, that is; tried to find ways to help Sherlock live the best life he could. There were years when he knew he was failing, but things seemed to have improved recently. He knew Moriarty was right. He would happily destroy his own reputation, if necessary. But, he could not do it to Sherlock. He remembered his defiant statement to Doctor Cohen, when he first met her decades ago,  _"I am not sure that he fully understands what love means, but that doesn't mean that I don't. He is my brother and I will always care about him."_

He reminded himself of that commitment every once in a while, especially on nights like tonight when they would both have to pay the price of his caring. The helicopter started its descent to Heathrow.

oOo

Irene replaced the cap on her lipstick. She checked her eye makeup in the mirror, then put it back in her handbag. She was ready. The last dampness of her black brocade patterned sheath dress was now gone; the car's heater had been pushed up to keep her warm. She re-read the contents of the envelope that had been waiting for her in the car- the terms were  _more_  than generous, and would ensure that Kate and she would never have to work for a living again. More important, if Holmes signed it, she would be granted immunity from prosecution, and her need to rely on the contents of her phone to protect her from everyone but Moriarty would disappear. That made her happy. It was a promise of liberation. Moriarty would release Kate, and the pair of them would escape. They'd have to go deep into hiding; she would always be looking over her shoulder in fear. But once safe, she'd tell the Irishman about her files on him and his operation, and tell him that his secrets were safe as long as she was alive.

The one regret she had was that it was Moriarty's way of using Sherlock to hurt the older brother. By signing up to the terms she dictated, Mycroft Holmes would agree to a corrupt arrangement that would allow the Irishman to blackmail him into the role of fallen angel. Whilst she had no loyalties toward the older brother, she knew that it would come with the price tag of her friendship with Sherlock Holmes. The terms were spelled out- failure to comply would mean the public exposure and humiliation of Sherlock as the one who had single-handedly destroyed the largest joint UK-US intelligence operation of the past decade. That she had played an unwitting part in setting this up made her feel decidedly unhappy.  _I'm sorry Sherlock; it was this, or watch him kill Kate._ A terrible choice; she had no idea when she started down the road of trying to break the code that it would end up this way. She thought it would gain her Mycroft's protection. She had not realised that it would be at the expense of Sherlock. While that had not bothered her at the start, it did now. She hoped for Sherlock's sake that his brother actually went through with it.

Her Vertu rang. She recognised the caller ID and made a face, but took the call.

"Mister Moriarty." She packed a little of the anger and distain she was feeling into her voice.

"Oh, Miss Whiplash, you sound a little annoyed. What's the problem, Irenee?" This was uttered in the Hollywood gangster voice of the synthesizer app used by Moriarty to fool GCHQ monitoring.

"I've read the letter you want me to hand over. While you know how to get a girl excited by all those zeros in the ransom demand, I don't like the idea that the little brother will get beat up if the big brother decides to fight back."

The Irishman sniffed. "Collateral damage, my little vixen. I get what I want. You get what you want, and your girlfriend gets to actually arrive in Nice alive. That's a win-win. Besides, you get to say to the Ice Man that you are the woman who beat the Holmes brothers. Do your reputation a world of good. Or are you going a little soft, my dear? Has playing with the Virgin turned your head? If so, hands off, darling. He's all  _mine._ "

Then he sniggered. "Of course, if you lose your nerve or fail, then I get to turn you into those shoes we discussed. And, I think there should be a matching pair made from the skin of that red-haired wench that shares your bed. Wonder whether Louboutin will accept a private commission- a one off that I could auction to the highest bidder from amongst your  _clients_? Think about that and just do your signature piece- beat the hell out of the Holmes Brothers." He broke the connection, as the car swept onto the tarmac in front of the plane.

When she exited the car, she went to the bottom of the stairs that went up to the back of the plane. The CIA thug that Moriarty owned was standing at the bottom.

The American smirked under his buzz-cut hair. "Well, well, the gang's all here. Your boyfriend is already up there being told just what a fool you've made of him. Nice to know that even you had to bow to the man in charge- Moriarty added you to his little list, did he?"

She didn't even give the man a second glance. He wasn't worth it.

As she came into the back galley, she could see the plane was scarcely lit. She peeped through the curtain into the passenger area. The seats were …occupied, which surprised her until she realised they weren't moving.  _Dummies?_ Then she caught the whiff of embalming fluid, and realised that the plane was a flight of the dead. Sherlock had his back to her, and his brother was at the far end. She listened into what they were saying.

"…Of course: unmanned aircraft. Hardly new."

Sherlock's comment provoked a face from his brother. "It doesn't fly. It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished."

Sherlock looked around at the dead passengers. "Your MOD man."

Mycroft's reply was quiet. "That's all it takes: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special." Irene knew instantly what he meant.

Sherlock didn't. "Hmm. You should screen your defence people more carefully."

That provoked a furious response from Mycroft. "I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock; I'm talking about  _you_!"

She couldn't see his face, but saw the startled reaction in Sherlock's body language.

"The damsel in distress." She watched as the man in the three piece suit moved forward now. "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle ..."His voice dropped to a whisper "... and watch him dance."

Sherlock snarled, "Don't be absurd."

"Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute, or were you  _really_  eager to impress?"

Irene realised it was time for her to perform. She felt for Sherlock, but she needed to deflect Mycroft's anger onto the real target. She pushed the curtain aside and moved behind Sherlock, saying in a confident tone. "I think it was less than five seconds."

His brother saw her, heard her and gave a rueful smile. He sighed. "I drove you into her path." He paused for a moment, and then as if deciding that, irrespective of her presence, he would finish what he had to say. "I'm sorry," accepting responsibility. He looked away from the pair of them. "I didn't know."

But, Sherlock wasn't looking at Mycroft; he was giving Irene a stunned look as he realised the extent of her betrayal.

She walked forward, saying "Mister Holmes, I think we need to talk."

Sherlock misunderstood to whom she was speaking, and replied "So do I. There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on." Irene knew she had to lay it on thick now; better for Sherlock if his brother thinks she duped him, rather than reveal just how willingly he had supplied her with the information. So she walked right past him, with the cutting comment, "Not you, Junior. You're done now."

She carried on down the aisle, pulling out her phone and showing the screen to the minor official of the British Government who was going to be her ticket out of Moriarty's clutches.

She looked the taller man in the eye and laid it out for him. "There's more ... loads more. On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me – unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

She knew she had won- and that Moriarty had succeeded- when Mycroft Holmes dropped his gaze from her and turned his head away.

She pressed home her advantage. "Now, shall we all go somewhere a little more comfortable? I have  _loads_  of things you need to do for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as ever, the dialogue from the broadcast scenes is borrowed from the incomparable Ariane DeVere's live journal transcripts.


	9. Chapter 9

Irene didn't have to wait long for Mycroft's reply. "This is best done away from prying eyes, so come with me."

Sherlock was still looking perplexed and a little dazed by the turn of events. As Irene watched Mycroft pass him in the aisle, the older man just said "You're coming with me, too. I'm not done with you yet." Sherlock did not protest but followed them down the stairs and into the waiting car. Mycroft was on the phone advising someone, "Three passengers to return to the house." He walked straight past Nielson, as if the man did not exist. She wondered if he knew that the CIA man was one of Moriarty's men. Obviously not senior enough to be trusted with the information about Bond Air until tonight, she'd always thought he was more brawn than brain. If he had known about the flight then she would have been spared this whole charade, and Moriarty would never have had to extract his price for her escape into anonymity. She gave him a sneering glance as she walked by.

The rotors of a helicopter were already turning lazily by the time they arrived at Heathrow's helipad. Sherlock hesitated for a moment but then opened the front door to sit alongside the pilot; Mycroft declined to offer a hand to help Irene into the back. She smirked as she clambered in and sat in a seat beside him. There would be no conversation on the flight; she knew that the minor official in the British Government would not want the pilot to overhear anything. So, she fitted the ear defenders carefully over her hair, buckled her shoulder seatbelt and relaxed. She would use the time to prepare.

When they left Heathrow, she tried to get her bearings, because she wondered where they would go. It would need to be safe and secure, of that she was positive. When the lights of central London passed to their left, she knew they were headed southeast, and guessed that it would be to Holmes' country estate. Across the darkness of the South Downs, the helicopter flew on before dipping lower. She spotted a circle of lights in the darkness and then they descended rapidly.

She started to unbuckle her seatbelt as Mycroft reached over to open the door. From the front of the helicopter, Sherlock had leapt out of his seat and was already outside. She saw a flash of the copter's landing lights on a pale face; his eyes seemed wild. Then he bolted for the surrounding trees without a backward glance.

Irene watched, and then looked over at Mycroft Holmes, whose face had held a permanent frown for the duration of the journey; he was watching his brother, too. "Is he alright?" she asked.

That made the frown deepen. "Why should that matter to you, Miss Adler?"

He led the way to the house. The path was lit by discrete solar lamps. When the two of them reached the trees, she heard the sound of someone retching to her left, and guessed it was Sherlock. "He gets airsick?" She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice, but failed.

"He doesn't like helicopters." Mycroft did not hesitate for a moment, but carried on down the path. A moment later, Irene decided she needed to follow him.

They were greeted at the door by a late middle-aged woman, whom Irene guessed was a housekeeper.

"Good evening, sir." Mycroft did not introduce her to the housekeeper, and Irene felt the woman's eyes on her. There was a hint of suspicion in her glance, which abruptly altered when the housekeeper spied another figure coming up the gravel path to the house. The sight of Sherlock brought a smile to the older woman's face. As he came in through the door, though, that look was replaced with one of concern. That made Irene turn to see what had changed the housekeeper's welcome. And she had to agree- Sherlock looked rough. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He was shivering as he came into the hall.

The housekeeper was now talking to Mycroft. "Let me take your coats. As your text asked, I've lit the fire in the Dining Room. Can I bring you, Sherlock or your guest anything to drink or eat?"

"No, thank you, Mrs Walters. We just need privacy. And my apologies for keeping you up late this evening."

He led the way across the hall, and down the corridor of the Tudor house, then in through an oak door. Irene took in the wood panelled room, a dining table at the far end, flanked by a pair of armoured horses ( _How grandiose)_ ; pulled up to the fireplace were a pair of leather chairs. Mycroft took her to the table, she drew a chair out and sat; then he drew out a chair opposite her and sat. Sherlock collapsed into one of the leather chairs- the one half turned away from them, as if he could not bear to watch. She decided to get the negotiation underway by taking her phone out and laying it on the table between them.

Mycroft looked down at the phone and said, "We have people who can get into this."

Irene's response was dismissive. "I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months. Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my camera phone."

A monotone baritone replied. "There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive."

Irene smirked when Mycroft lowered his face into his hand.

Sherlock continued, because he was not looking at his brother's gesture of despair. "Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive."

She rubbed the salt into the wounds. "Explosive- it's more me."

Mycroft raised his head and pinned her with a look. "Some data is always recoverable."

She batted that comment away with the destain it deserved. "Take that risk?"

Mycroft resumed with a new certainty. "You have a password to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you."

Calmly, without taking her eyes off of Mycroft, she just said, "Sherlock?"

Again, a flat response. "There will be two passcodes: one to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress, you can't know which one she's given you and there will be no point in a second attempt."

She smiled again. "He's good, isn't he? I should have him on a leash – in fact, I might." She turned to look at Sherlock affectionately.

That provoked Mycroft into an abrupt retort, "We destroy this, then. No-one has the information."

She nodded and returned fire, "Fine. Good idea ... unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

"Are there?" Mycroft was asking the obvious, certain she wouldn't reveal the truth.

She was enjoying this. "Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not  _playing_  anymore." It was time to lay the demands on the table, so she reached into her handbag, and took out the envelope. She pushed it across the table at the older man. "A list of my requests; and some ideas about my protection once they're granted."

Mycroft withdrew the sheet and started to unfold it as she continued, "I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation – but then I'd be lying."

She looked at the man, really looked for the first time. There were some resemblances between the two brothers, but not much beyond their height. Mycroft Holmes was more conventional- ( _boring? )_ \- in his looks and demeanour than his brother. She watched as he raised his eyebrows in some surprise as he read through the demands listed.

Irene could not resist pricking that self-important persona. "I imagine you'd like to sleep on it."

He didn't look up as he continued reading. "Thank you, yes."

"Too bad."

They both heard a snort of amusement from the direction of the fireplace. Irene decided to rub it in some more. "Off you pop and talk to people."

Mycroft's sigh of resignation was audible, and he sank back in the chair, his posture betraying his surrender. "You've been very…thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you."

She knew that "our lot" could refer to his people, but he might well be including his brother in that dismissal of incompetence. She decided that she could try to shift the blame a bit.

"I can't take all the credit. Had a bit of help." She looked across to Sherlock and then said, "Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."

That made the younger brother sit up.  _Yes, Sherlock- I_ will _tell him about this._

But it was Mycroft who spoke first, in a slightly diffident manner. "Yes, he's been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention." He then followed it with an admission "... which I'm sure can be arranged."

Irene decided to up the ante by getting up and walking around the edge of the dining table. She sat on the edge of it, now at a height advantage to Mycroft. She had a sense that Sherlock was now listening to the discussion intently. This was her chance to try to get Mycroft to understand that Sherlock was not really to blame. She would need to lay it on thickly; she'd rather make him look foolish than make him look culpable.

"I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you?" Once she knew that Mycroft was giving her his undivided attention, she said softly, "The Ice Man". She then looked across to Sherlock and said "... and the Virgin."

Now to try to explain something in sub-text to Sherlock, she followed this revelation with another bit of disinformation. No mention of Kate, or the times when she and Sherlock had met privately, no reference to her period of playing dead. Mycroft Holmes did not need to know the full extent of the problem. So she lied and said that Moriarty "didn't even ask for anything." She put up the smokescreen and hoped that Mycroft would buy it. "I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock listened to the conversation going on behind him. He couldn't bear to look at them. The helicopter trip had just about pushed him over the edge, and he needed to reduce the sensory stimulation. So he let his eyes rest idly on the fire, not seeing the flames. While he was trying to re-establish control, he had to keep shoving the memory of the journey away. He  _loathed_  helicopters. The noise was excruciating, the machine oil and jetA1 fuel drove his sense of smell into overdrive, and the odd motion disturbed his equilibrium. Helicopters did not 'fly'; they chewed their way through the air in a way that he felt every vibration in every cell of his body. He had learned this while in an EC145 flown by the Metropolitan Police, sitting alongside Lestrade whilst in pursuit of a murder suspect fleeing in a car. They had managed to catch the culprit, but Sherlock had suffered a near melt-down in the process.

The taste of his vomit was still distracting him. Add to those sensory distresses the fact that he was now realising the full significance of what solving the code meant, and, well, it was shaking his state of mind up, too. He focussed ruthlessly, trying to block all sensation so his new Mind Palace could grapple with the problem, unfettered.

When Mycroft mentioned that Moriarty had been in touch and that he would have to give him his "attention", Sherlock knew the full horror of what he'd done. By solving the MOD code, he'd blown a hole so wide that Moriarty could walk in and destroy Mycroft. And because neither she nor he knew what Bond Air was about, he'd unknowingly given Irene and therefore Moriarty the way to blackmail his brother. It was worse than destroying, it meant turning Mycroft into Moriarty's tool. Sherlock had almost panicked at the pool that the Irishman would use John as his weakness, and instead he had himself become his brother's weakness. He hated that, hated being used, hated being lied to by everyone.

One part of him was livid with his brother.  _If the idiot had only TOLD me!_  He knew that they wouldn't be where they were now if Mycroft had been honest and shared the truth about Bond Air, the "something big" that he denied was in the making. The deal he was supposed to have made, to keep Sherlock and John informed about what Moriarty was up to was so dead that it wasn't even worth mentioning. Disgusted with himself, he shut off the  _what ifs_  because they were distracting him from dealing with the  _now_.

He listened to Irene negotiating. He cursed himself for not realising that her return was motivated by something more than fear of her being caught and killed. No, this level of betrayal was surely due to Moriarty holding the ultimate power- he must have Kate and be threatening to kill her. It was a re-run of what had led her to her "death". She'd come out of that to protect the one thing she loved more than herself. But he also heard what she  _wasn't_ telling his brother. She was keeping a lot of the background to herself; he noticed that she was not using her contact with him, her working with him as a means to humiliate Sherlock and embarrass Mycroft.

Moriarty was using her to get at Mycroft, like he had tried to do with Sherlock. But Sherlock realised she was trying to play her own game, too. He needed to understand that, because Mycroft wouldn't. He would assume she was just working for Moriarty. He knew differently.  _Think- there must be a weakness there. Why isn't she willingly destroying me, humiliating me and using my stupidity to show Mycroft what an idiotic brother he has?_

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing softly.

Mycroft had just admitted defeat. "And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees." Sherlock saw in his peripheral vision Mycroft stand up and then nod to The Woman seated at the table. "Nicely played." He then turned as if to leave the room to contact the people who would need to meet her demands. Then Irene Adler stood up, her smile confident. She'd won. That smile just burned a hole in Sherlock's composure.

"No." It was quiet but definite. He would not, could not let her get away with it.

They both turned to him. Irene was the one who spoke first, "Sorry?" as if she had not quite understood what he said.

He turned his head so he could see both of them, rather than the fire. "I said no. Very, very close, but no." He stood up and started to walk toward her. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

He could see the worry in her eyes. She  _needed_  him to play passively, so Kate would be released. But she didn't want to hurt him in the process. He digested that and realised what it actually meant. But if it was at the expense of his brother, he couldn't allow it. She tried to bluff, "No such thing as too much."

He pulled together the different threads of his deduction and let his anger show as he came closer to her. He had to puncture that confidence, so he looked down at her. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game – I sympathise entirely – but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." He could see her confusion.

"Sentiment? What are you talking about?"

"You." His Mind Palace provided the final deduction, just as she bluffed again.

"Oh, dear God. Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

He stepped closer, to the point where their personal spaces merged. With a soft "no," Sherlock explained. He wrapped the fingers around her left wrist, leaned forward and bent so his mouth was close to her right ear. "Because I took your pulse." It was almost like a lover when he whispered, "elevated; your pupils dilated."

He released her hand and leaned past her to pick up the camera phone from the table. In a normal conversational tone, he continued while walking away from her. "I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive." Stunned, and now with her back to Mycroft, she could let her face carry some of the fear that she was feeling. He saw that when he turned to face her again.

But he couldn't stop. "When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe – your measurements; but this." He flipped the phone in the air and caught it again. "... this is far more intimate. This is your heart."

He had toyed with the idea that the four spaces were K.A.T.E but dismissed it months ago – too obvious. She'd never be so careless. He stood looking at her and punched in the first letter. "... and you should never let it rule your head."

He could read panic in her eyes.

"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for ..." He punched in the second letter. "…but you just couldn't resist it, could you?" He did not allow her to escape his stare. "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage ..." and he keyed in the third character. "Thanks for the final proof."

She broke first, seizing his hand and gazing up, almost imploring. "Everything I said: it's not real." In a whisper she said, "I was just playing the game." Her eyes were now glistening with tears.

Sherlock whispered back, "I know" as he keyed in the last letter. "And this is just losing." He turned the screen so she could see it, knowing that Mycroft behind her would also see it.

I AM  
SHER  
LOCKED

She looked at the screen in despair as it lit up. Sherlock pulled it away and held it out for Mycroft, the opening menu now live on the screen. He did not take his eyes off her, but said, "There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight."

"I'm certain they will." Mycroft's relief was tangible as he took the phone.

Now Sherlock had to decide just how far to take this. He walked away from her to the other side of the dining room, gaining himself a few seconds to plot the end game. Without the phone, Irene would be of no use to Moriarty. He already had the code that destroyed Bond Air. So, Mycroft would have to use the information on the phone to save his own skin. Sherlock had no doubt that he would. His brother was in his element now.

Sherlock knew that by doing what he had just done, he was jeopardising both Kate and Irene's lives. But The Woman had given him no choice. He hated what he was being forced to do. If she was taken into custody, then perhaps Moriarty would not bother with Kate. Her usefulness as a hostage would disappear. So, he turned and made the suggestion to Mycroft. "If you're feeling kind, lock her up; otherwise let her go. I doubt she'll survive long without her protection."

Irene knew her world had just collapsed. She stared at him. "Are you expecting me to beg?"

"Yes."

Her reply was heartfelt. "Please."

He stopped his progress out of the room, but would not look at her.

She tried to reach him with a blatant appeal. "You're right…."

He turned to look at her as she pleaded "…I won't even last six months."

If he asked his brother for clemency for her, he knew Mycroft well enough to know that it would guarantee that she'd be hung out to dry as bait for Moriarty. And, given what he knew about her motives, and why she had made the choice she made, he thought that might be unfair. Both she and he had been kept in the dark. Both had made a mistake about the code. Both were collateral damage, victims of the fight going on between Moriarty and Mycroft. She had been trying to protect Kate, a motive he understood because he was faced with the same issue regarding John. He did not blame her quite enough to want her total destruction. But he had to make sure Mycroft believed that he despised her. That would shift his brother's thoughts to using Irene, rather than punishing her. So, he made his views clear, in a cruel tone.

"Sorry about dinner." He walked through the door without looking back.


	11. Chapter 11

As the door shut behind Sherlock, Irene turned to Mycroft. She didn't bother to hide the tears that were now making their way down her face. She'd been beaten, and she knew it.  _Oh, Kate, I am so sorry._

The man stood looking at her phone, scanning through something on it. Rather distracted, he said calmly, "Sit down." He gestured to the leather chair, without looking up from the screen. Irene sat and realised the chair was still warm from where Sherlock had been sitting in it only moments before. She looked at the fire and tried to compose herself, but the tears kept coming.  _Sentiment, indeed._

A moment later, a hand came over her shoulder with a crisply ironed and folded red handkerchief with white dots, which she took. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, knowing that the action would destroy her make-up.  _Who cares?_ Then Mycroft Holmes went to the sideboard and poured two brandies. He handed one to her before taking his seat in the matching leather armchair. He looked at her, impassively.

"I recognise the last number you called; it's one I have been using this evening, as well."

She knew he meant Moriarty. She had no illusions about her role in "delivering terms"- the Irishman would be extracting his own concessions, too. She took a generous sip of the brandy and calmly returned Mycroft's gaze. She waited for him to tell her what fate he had in mind for her.

"I could just put you into custody, while my people digest what is on this phone."

 _He wants something from me._ She could hardly believe it, but the thought restored her composure almost as much as the brandy did. With some courage, she decided to fight her corner. "If you arrest me, then you will have to charge me. Courtrooms are…so public. So many things would have to be said in my defence. Could be embarrassing to a great many people." She knew he wouldn't dare risk it.

That comment made him raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't thinking of  _that_  sort of confinement- more a matter of  _protective_  custody. Letting you loose now would be an interesting way of attracting Moriarty- but then he's the sort that doesn't like to get his hands dirty, so he'd just send some underling to kill you. While that would be…convenient for me, I think you might be a bit more cooperative if I can offer a bit of security."

 _What does he want?_  She knew a negotiation when she heard it. "How can I help you, Mister Holmes? It seems you think I can be useful you in some way, but it would be nice to know how."

"What was the agreed next step? Once you 'won' your concessions from me, how were you going to tell Moriarty?"

"Why does that matter? It's rather academic, isn't it?"

"Say that it would suit me to keep him  _misinformed_  at this stage. Just for a while. Perhaps only until tomorrow morning. Would that suit your timetable? I assume that having some extra time would be helpful to you as well as to me."

She thought it through. Her fingers of her left hand rubbed the edge of the fine silk handkerchief in her lap. He didn't know about Kate, nor about the fact that Irene would give  _anything_  to make sure that her lover escaped Moriarty's clutches. She could almost accept her own fate, if she knew Kate was free. But, it wouldn't do to be _too_  eager. "What's in it for me?"

That produced a condescending look. "I don't think you're in the position to bargain much, are you?" He took a sip of his brandy and looked into the fire. A silence fell.  _So, it's take it or leave it._

He must have taken her silence for acquiescence and reached into his jacket pocket- the left hand inside pocket of his immaculate pinstriped suit. He pulled out his mobile. "I want you to call him on  _my_  phone. Tell him you took it as…a trophy."

"I'd rather make it on my own. He'll be expecting that."

"I'm not stupid, Miss Adler. You will never touch your phone again, lest you find a way to delete what's on here. Knowing you, a single keystroke would be enough. No, you will use my phone. Tell him what he is expecting to hear from you. I need him to believe that he owns me. Just until tomorrow morning, when he will discover the truth. I am assuming that you have no  _personal_  loyalty to the man. It seems difficult to believe that he is capable of engendering that kind of commitment from anyone. Oddly enough, my brother seems to have done so with you. That's…remarkable."

She didn't hesitate. " _He's_  remarkable. And smarter than Moriarty, if a little more naïve. You made a big mistake in not trusting him with more information. If he'd known what you were doing, he would never have solved the puzzle for me. It's not fair of you to blame him."

"Life's not fair, Miss Adler. I think you know that by now. Just make the call. And, remember, I'm listening. In fact, make a point of it. I'm putting it on speaker phone."

She took the man's phone. She closed her eyes, and let her mind drift back to where it had been less than a quarter of an hour before. Before Sherlock ripped the victory out of her hands, when she had believed she had found a way out of the nightmare. By acting as if she had won, she just might be able to convince the Irishman to deliver Kate. Even if Irene ended up languishing in some prison cell somewhere, at least Kate would be free. She took a deep breath and hit last call made.

There were two rings, then a bored Irish, "hullo."

"Mister Moriarty, I have good news for you." She was crisp, business-like professionalism personified.

"Oh, Irenee; how  _sweet_ , you're calling on the Ice Man's phone. So, everything went to plan then?"

"Of course, did you doubt me? He's sitting across from me now. Would you like a word? You're on speaker phone." She placed the phone on the arm of the chair nearest to Mycroft.

There was a half stifled giggle. "Hmmm, hi there, Frosty. I hope you don't mind me calling you by such a casual sort of name, but I feel like we're…well, better acquainted now. Do you like my messenger? She's really rather handy with the riding crop. I gather she put a few lashes into the brother of yours." Then his voice steadied. "You're calling from outside London- oh, what a posh boy, you took her home to the country. How very polite of you. I wondered if she might end up in a cell in the basement of Vauxhall Cross. But, there you go. We Irish always think the worst of the British Government."

She decided to interrupt. "Mister Moriarty. You have all the time in the world to gloat- later, on your own time. I'm on my way, once you provide the evidence required. Send it now please."

"Pooh- you're such a spoilsport. Oh, all right. I'll hang up now and get her to call you."

The line went dead. She locked eyes with Mycroft. "My phone is going to ring and I need to be able to answer it or they will suspect something."

Mycroft stood up as the Vertu rang. He walked over to her. "Keep your hands in your lap, Miss Adler." He opened the line, and held it to her ear. She could hear a soft breathing on the end. "Kate, talk to me."

"Turquoise." It was Kate's favourite colour.

Irene shut her eyes in silent relief. The code word they'd set up years before. She was  _safe_. "Are you far enough away that no one can change that?"

"Yes."

"Then it's plan paradise. Goodbye, Kate."

He pulled the phone away from her ear, and ended the call. "I presume that she is nothing to do with Moriarty?"

She glared at him. "No, it's personal. And he's been holding her hostage until I delivered the code and your brother. I had no idea about the plane, you know that. And even when Sherlock told me, neither he nor I knew what it meant. That's  _your_  fault."

Mycroft sat back in his chair and sipped at the brandy. His eyes did not leave her face. "Did Sherlock do…what he did… to help you free her? Or was there another motive?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"I intend to."

Irene sipped her own brandy. "Moriarty thinks it was because I seduced Sherlock."

Mycroft sat back down in his chair. "But we both know that isn't true. Whatever  _your_  feelings are about my brother, that little episode showed me they aren't shared, at least not in the same way. So, now that your hostage is free, what happens next?"

"You were supposed to provide me with the means to disappear, and the cover story to live a different life. You still can."

He looked askance. "Well, I am sure I can arrange the disappearance, but it won't be the sort you were thinking of. What is 'Plan Paradise'? Will your friend's actions betray anything significant to Moriarty if he is watching?"

"No, I am not stupid either, Mister Holmes. She will head for an agreed place and wait for me. She knows it may take some time. You are going to have to let me go at some point. The only question is whether it is in a way that turns me straight over to Moriarty or one that gives me a fighting chance. You have what you wanted- the phone."

He looked down at the Vertu in his hand. "Yes, I do. Some people, no doubt, will be relieved that I have recovered it. Others I am sure will not be, including the people who have been targeted by you at Moriarty's behest, 'dark angels', as he likes to call them. That will be useful."

She smirked. "More than  _useful_ ; there is material on it which will help you on both sides of the Atlantic. I am sure your American colleagues will find the data very valuable. It took me quite a while to accumulate that on my last trip when I was playing dead- but when I chose to work with Moriarty, I didn't realise until too late how dangerous it would be, so I tried to build some protection. It's all on the phone. "

Mycroft Holmes's eyes were nothing like his brother's. Blue, yes, but a dark colour, more in common with gunmetal than sea waves. Right now they were drilling a hole in her. "I hope so for your sake, Miss Adler. But I have paid a  _very_  expensive price for it if I cannot manage to rescue the situation from Moriarty. Now you will be quiet and not interfere with the next conversation."

She leaned back in her chair and raised her hands in mock surrender.

He took his phone and hit last number dialled. She couldn't hear what was said to him- but Mycroft made a face. "Very well, I will put it on speaker phone." He put the phone on the arm of the chair nearest to her. Then a confident, "Oh, here we are again, Frosty. How's things?" The Irishman's tone was jovial.

"I have agreed terms with Miss Adler, and am making arrangements for her transport out of the country. Is there anything  _you_  require from me before the morning? I expect the conversations will need to start very early. You can imagine the…reaction to the flight cancellation has been rather ferocious."

There was a snigger at the other end. "Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'air rage', doesn't it?" When Mycroft didn't reply, Moriarty continued, "Rest assured, I won't leave you high and dry. While that might be  _fun_ , I have invested rather a lot into this little recruitment exercise. So, you'll get the information you need. Be ready at 7am. When's the meeting?"

"Unconfirmed, as yet. The Prime Minister's diary was a tad awkward. Before eleven certainly. Our American friend will want to be briefed well before that. So, don't be late." Mycroft ended the call, and pocketed the phone.

Irene was smirking. "That will have annoyed Moriarty. He always likes the last word." Even though he was supposed to be beaten, Mycroft was not willing to roll over and play dead. She couldn't resist- "His name for you is well-deserved. You've figured a way to turn this to your advantage."

He stood up and went over to the fireplace, put another log on the fire and pushed the bell for a servant. "Yes, of course."

She saw the confidence restored to what it must always have been.  _My God, Sherlock. What it must have been like growing up with all that smug certainty? Has he never been dominated?_

A few moments later, the Housekeeper arrived. "Mrs Walters, our guest here will be spending the night; could you make up the Blue Room for her? And I need to speak to Carlton." She nodded, gave a cool look at Irene and left.

Almost as soon as she was out of the door, a man entered. Suited, but with all the hallmarks of one of Mycroft's people. He watched her like she was a threat. She could see, from long experience, that the jacket was hiding a shoulder holster. Of course, Mycroft Holmes would have armed protection. She watched his boss walk to the dining room table and upend her handbag, spilling its contents across the table. He poked through them, looking for anything suspicious. "No, I don't think I trust you enough to give  _any_  of this back to you."  _Clever man._  She had a half dozen hidden tools amongst the paraphernalia of a woman's handbag. She even had a lock pick in the lining of her under-wired bra.  _Be prepared_  was her motto when it came to misbehaving.

"Carlton, this is Miss Adler. You are to ensure that she remains in custody tonight. I'm putting her in the Blue Room. She is dangerous, and not to be trusted under any circumstances. You are to watch her strip off and then remove  _all_  of her clothing and shoes from the room. Lock her in, and if you have the slightest belief that she is attempted to escape, then you have my permission to put a bullet in her." This was as calmly said as if Mycroft was reading aloud a weather report. "Tomorrow morning, you will ensure she is transferred to secure custody- the Pine Woods facility."

He then looked at her again. "I should be free by the late afternoon or early evening to resume our conversation, Miss Adler. Until then, good evening."

As she was escorted from the room, she realised that for Mycroft Holmes, it probably felt like a good evening, or, at least, very much better than it had been an afternoon.


	12. Chapter 12

For Sherlock, it was far from a good evening. As soon as he left the dining room, the full weight of the past eight hours landed right on the back of his neck. The after-effects of the near melt-down were still making his stomach churn. He desperately needed to rinse his mouth out with something, anything, to get rid of the taste of bile. Away from the log fire, he was feeling the cold, too. His brother never heated the house properly when he wasn't hosting a Government event.

In the hall at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock hesitated. He needed to think,  _really think._  The fact that he'd broken the phone open solved a few problems- but it could not get Flight 007 airborne again. His brother would have to work very hard, and be very clever to resurrect the situation. He had no doubt that Mycroft would be successful in turning this around, but it was only a battle to be won, rather than the war itself.

The fact would remain that Moriarty could not be brought into custody. It was simply not possible. The man had too many contingency plans for just such an event. And any government that tried it would be held to ransom by the man's network. For the same reason, any attempt to kill Moriarty would be countered by unleashing an unstoppable series of crimes against the state that dared try such a thing- even if it proved to be successful. It had been Moriarty's protection for almost a decade, and it would stop Mycroft from being able to truly defeat Moriarty.

Sherlock was simply horrified that he had been the unwitting instrument of Moriarty's plots against Mycroft. He was angry to the point of  _rage_  that Mycroft had been stupid enough to keep something so important from him. He needed to think this one all the way through and figure out how to stop Moriarty. He knew Mycroft would not want him to do this. He didn't care. He was so angry right now that what his brother thought just didn't matter anymore.

He made a decision, and went up the stairs, down the corridor to the east wing of the house, up another flight of stairs and then into his old bedroom. Alone amongst the bedrooms, his had never been converted for use by visitors. It was too small and dark to be thought of as acceptable in today's world of five star hotels and conference venues. Now more of a storage space, it still held a wardrobe in which some of his old clothing still hung. He changed into a pair of dark jeans, a thick sweater and then dug into the back of the wardrobe floor for his pair of old hiking boots and socks. He left his suit hanging on the wardrobe door, and then went down the back stairs to the kitchen. He took a bottle of water from the fridge and rinsed his mouth out to banish the taste of bile, then drank the rest of it, before taking another bottle for the journey. He liberated one of Frank Wallace's old shooting jackets from the boot room- it was waxed cotton and reasonably waterproof, if a little muddy and worn. Then he went out into the courtyard and disappeared into the night.

He needed to walk. It was the best therapy he knew for settling his mind when too much was going on in it. The helicopter ride seriously overloaded his sensory perceptions. The stress of realising how much his own stupidity would cost his brother was another nail in the coffin. If he didn't get his proprioceptive and vestibular systems back in synch, he was headed for a serious melt-down.

To keep his mind focused, Sherlock decided to walk back to London. There were fifty seven miles between the house and Baker Street, but that would be as a crow flies, and he had no wings. His journey on foot would nearly double that distance. He'd start now and walk through the night, then all day tomorrow; he'd probably be back by late evening or early morning on the third day. A lot depended on whether he could be bothered to try to avoid showing up on cameras, which would require him to do more off road walking. He knew the footpaths, the river walks, the bridle trails and the tracks of West Sussex as well as he knew the streets of London. He knew that his brother would track him on the estate's security systems, so he wanted to get off the land quickly. He headed into Northpark Wood. At the far lake, he'd cross the Greatham Lane. Another half mile across fields and he would reach the River Arun. Following that watercourse upstream, he would then get to North River and be able to take that past Horsham. Then up and over the South and North Downs. It was surprisingly easy to keep to the rural corridor between main roads and settlements all the way to Esher. After that, he'd reach the Thames at Hampton Court. From there on, the Thames Path would lead him home. He'd done it before. He'd have to climb fences, cross fields and generally trespass to hell and gone, but no one really cared about a sole pedestrian enough to stop him.

He turned his phone off and entered the trees, relishing the darkness. Once his eyes were fully adjusted, he could see the lighter track clearly. His ears picked up the sounds of his childhood- wind murmuring in the tree leaves, the rustling of undergrowth when a vole or weasel went about its business. A little owl screeched somewhere in Humphries Copse. He wondered if the badger sett near the estate boundary wall there would still be occupied.  _Probably not. Mycroft is so bloody PC these days._  The badgers were under threat of culling; too many cases of bovine tuberculosis made farmers wary of them, as they were carriers of the disease.

He just parked the problem of Moriarty, and then double-parked the issue of Irene.  _I will think about them in a couple of hours or so._ He found his mood lifting.

oOo

Back in North London, John went up Baker Street in a bit of a state. He'd spent the entire five hours he promised to Irene worrying. He'd not followed The Woman's advice. To be honest, since Jeanette broke it off in the New Year, he'd not had many dates, and didn't feel able to give the few women he had taken out a last minute call. He ended up in a pub, the Gunmakers, on Aybrook Street about ten minutes' walk away from the flat. He liked the Greene King IPA they served. With a pint in his hand he settled into the corner. It had a reasonable menu and he chose a couple of Indian samosas and a curry. Sherlock didn't like them as spicy as he enjoyed them, so he told the barman to put on the hot chutney.

It turned out to be pub quiz night, and the regulars started filling the place up. He decided to watch the competition. He found himself wondering what Sherlock would make of it. (" _Competition? More a test of stupidity, John. I mean, why would anyone clutter their brains with useless data about football teams, soap opera stars and inanities about Hollywood films?")_  At one point, there was a question about the solar system and it made John smile into his second pint. He realised that even when he was alone now, his friend was still with him, never far from his thoughts. John was only ever really free of thinking about Sherlock when he was working at the clinic or as a locum at one of the hospitals. Diagnosis required total concentration on the patient; it was one of the reasons why he was reluctant to give up medical work, even when Sherlock's case load might have tempted him to do it. It was a break from the full-on demands of sharing a flat and a life with the man.

That made him feel guilty. He  _hated_  Irene Adler for doing that to him. He'd made a whole series of assumptions about Sherlock's need to be  _protected_ , never realising that the man was more than happy to meet her on his own without saying anything, in order to protect _him_  from getting annoyed about it. Sherlock would have deduced John's distrust, and just avoided the whole topic. John sighed. On the other hand, the man's first encounter with her had not exactly ended well- drugged and then thrashed with a riding crop… _Oh My God!_  John just connected what happened in The Woman's bedroom with what he knew now about Sherlock's experience with being assaulted with a riding crop when he was fifteen.

He put the pint down and tried to breathe.  _Calm down. She couldn't have known._  But…Sherlock did. Or was he so drugged at the time that he couldn't remember it? GHB did have a tendency to affect memory of the incident. For once, he hoped that was the case.

He tried to think it through. What he had just seen of the two of them suggested there was sexual chemistry from her side- or was that just her way of expressing a connection? Sherlock showed no reciprocation in that way; was that because women in general were "not my area" or…could he have been referring that night in Angelo's to sexual contact of  _any_  kind? He remembered the conversation at Battersea Power Station. He'd said "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes?" And six months later he was no clearer about it. He'd never seen Sherlock react that way to anyone, male or female.

Irene Adler  _scared_  John; but clearly she didn't scare Sherlock. All that Dominatrix stuff was sort of like…water off a duck's back. His friend seemed impervious to Adler's banter or to her sexually motivated approach to life. Did he actually understand that sort of thing? He remembered asking Mrs Hudson, "Has he ever had  _any_ kind of…girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?" She'd been as baffled as he was that neither of them knew.

As he tucked into his curry, he spent a while trying to understand what Sherlock might see in her. Apart from the dominatrix stuff, apart from the sexual innuendo that she constantly used, apart from the way she dressed ( _or undressed)_ , well, if one could set those aside (and he was having real difficulties doing just that), then what remained? An incredible intelligent woman. That much he got. One who had outsmarted Sherlock. That didn't happen very often, if at all. Maybe, it was the novelty value. Meeting someone who could compete with that massive intellect, so Sherlock had become fascinated? Maybe.

By the time he finished these ruminations, the curry was sitting uncomfortably heavy in his stomach. Getting stressed about what might or might not be happening back in Baker Street was giving him a headache, too, not helped by the increasingly raucous laughter of the pub quiz contestants. Fuelled by more than a few beers, the teams were getting more aggressively competitive. So, he decided he needed some air. He walked south. He had an hour and a half to kill before he could return when he said he would. He headed for Oxford Street's lights and a bit of window shopping.

By the time he'd reached Oxford Circus, he was bored with that, and decided to head for another pub. This one was the Old Explorer on Great Castle Street, a traditional pub. John loathed the new breed of wine bars; give him an old-fashioned boozer any day. This one was a Greene King pub, too. So he had a third pint of IPA. Fortunately, the place was not very busy and he was left alone to think about how he felt. Irritated with himself, a tad defensive, too, if the truth be told. Irene did that to him. Made him  _annoyed._  He could not get out of his mind the look she had given Sherlock when he broke the code. Unfettered admiration combined with unabashed lust. And yet Sherlock had not understood it.  _Was I right to leave them alone together?_  He worried about what might happen when a sexual predator met a man who did not relate to people in that way. Yet, there was  _something_  going on. But, he found it hard to imagine a man who disliked being touched turning into someone who liked intimacy. A man who had little sense of personal boundaries, yes- but not one who had much, if any, sexual experience, if his brother's comments at Buckingham Palace were to be believed.

He scrutinised his own motives. Ever since he'd moved into the flat, he'd been continually surprised by Sherlock _. Life's never dull when you share it with a mad genius whose idea of fun is chasing criminals across London's rooftops._  It was just what he needed. The psychosomatic limp was healed within days, and the depression that dogged his limping steps since Afghanistan lifted soon afterwards. While it was  _challenging_  living with the man, it was also something that John had grown to like. Despite his grumbling about being taken advantage of, John actually liked feeling needed. He knew that Sherlock would never admit to appreciating it. He didn't expect thanks. But a strange kind of friendship, a mutual dependency, had grown up. The younger man resented John's dating. (" _It gets in the way of the case work, John.")_  He was totally selfish in that way, and very annoying at times. It wasn't just the solar system- the whole world had to revolve around Sherlock, according to him. But, it did make John realise that if push came to shove, and he had to do with one but not the other, the dating would always take second place. Jeanette had been right. So had Irene at Battersea, much to his annoyance.

The only other person with whom John had to "share" Sherlock was Lestrade, who on more than one occasion had made it clear to John that he was delighted to have someone else to shoulder some of the responsibility of keeping that brain and its transport functioning. After initial suspicions, even Mycroft had grown accustomed to John's presence in his brother's life, seeing him as a calming influence.

So, it was a shock to find that Sherlock was not only willing but able to form a relationship of some sort with another person. And one such as Irene Adler.  _Well, there's no accounting for taste._  Yes, damn it. He was jealous of the attention he was paying to her. It made him realise his own shortcomings. If Irene's appeal to Sherlock wasn't sexual, and he had no evidence of that yet, then perhaps it was intellectual. That made John even more self-conscious about his own shortcomings in that area. Maybe Sherlock was just  _bored_  with him.

He sighed into his beer. Three pints and he was getting maudlin.

When he headed west on Mortimer Street he was still trying to suss things out. Turning north onto Baker Street, as he came up the road, he realised that the lights in the living room were off. That made him wonder where they might be. He let himself into the flat and came up the stairs, taking care to make his entrance a little noisier than usual.  _Give them warning, if…_  But he found it hard to imagine those two making out on the sofa. He was relieved to find the room empty when he got there. A quick glance down the corridor from the kitchen showed him that Sherlock's bedroom door was open and there were no lights on. He cautiously peeked around the door and found it empty, too, with no evidence of anything having taken place there between two people. So, not in the flat at all. He wondered where they might have gone. 

 _Looking for more privacy?_  His mind boggled at the thought, as he made himself a cup of tea and prepared for bed.


	13. Chapter 13

As soon as he had left the dining room when Carlton escorted Miss Adler up to her bedroom, Mycroft tried to find Sherlock. He knew that his brother's first instinct would be to flee.  _Master of avoidance_. A quick check of the Library and the drawing room came up empty. He then went up the stairs to what was once Sherlock's bedroom. That's when he saw the suit carefully hung on the wardrobe. He cursed inwardly, and then contacted the security team at the house. Within minutes the CCTV footage was checked and he was shown the footage of the tall figure leaving the house and heading into the woods. He sent men after his brother.

The team called in twenty minutes later. "We tracked him to the point where he crossed the estate perimeter. He might have hitched a lift from a car on the Greatham Lane taking him either east or west. The footage shows eleven cars passing the camera at the road junction, any one of which could have stopped to pick up a passenger once it got out of camera range. There was no sign of a trail on the other side of the road. About 200 meters to the west, he could have headed across open fields. I'm sorry, Sir, he's just disappeared. We don't have enough men to chase down all the possible routes." The man sounded apologetic. "Do you want to call in the helicopter, sir? The one on the helipad here doesn't have any thermal imaging equipment, but we might still be able to spot him with a floodlight."

Mycroft knew his brother's ability to disappear was not dependent on being in London. He sighed. He asked the security team to see if they could locate Sherlock's phone using GPS. He tried calling his brother's number. It went straight to voice mail. "Unless you're an idiot, you know who you called. Leave a message. If it isn't tedious, I might get back to you." This was said in a bored baritone. Mycroft left a tersely worded command. Ten minutes later there had been no reply.

He started texting.

**12.19am Where are you? The stuff on this phone is fascinating. We need to talk about next steps.**

No reply.

**12.27am On foot, cross country? How nostalgic. But I'm not at Eton this time, brother. Call me.**

No reply. He resumed texting.

**12.43 Answer your phone. I need you, if we are to tackle JM together.**

If Mycroft hoped that he might get cooperation by appealing to Sherlock's ego and offering him the chance to work together, he was sadly mistaken. There was still no reply. The security team leader got off his own phone to say "I'm sorry sir; we think he has turned his phone off. No sign of it anywhere in the system."

Mycroft sighed. Why did Sherlock always have to be so  _bloody_  difficult? He called off the manhunt. He had other things to think about, and could not afford to waste time on Sherlock distracting him from what he needed to do.

oOo

Mycroft spent the rest of the night sitting in the study digesting what was on the phone and trying to plot the morning's activities accordingly. While it was still dark, before five a.m. he went upstairs, took a shower and dressed; the car picked him up thirty minutes later. By 6.50 he anticipated would be in the Cabinet Office room that he sometimes used as an office, waiting for the promised phone call from Moriarty. The American NSA Security Adviser was due to arrive at 8am, and the COBRA meeting was now due to start at 10.15. The PM would be meeting the US Ambassador at noon.

As the car journeyed up the A23 toward the M23, Mycroft rehearsed his night's work. His planning had been based around two scenarios- the first was that Moriarty would leave him high and dry, with no excuse- just for the pleasure of watching him crash and burn. Unlikely that he would do this, given the investment made so far, but it was prudent to plan for it, just in case. Mycroft had his story ready- about the source that had tipped him off about the CIA having the evidence that the terrorists knew that their code had been broken. Mycroft had found a photo on Irene's phone, of the CIA agent Nielson meeting with Moriarty's right hand man, one Sebastian Moran. He'd actually met the man at the plane, sent from the Embassy to investigate what had happened to call the flight off. He was clearly an underling, not privy to the plans.  _Thank God, otherwise the flight would have been betrayed to Moriarty months ago._  On the other hand, that would have been preferable to having his own brother leak the information. Mycroft ruthlessly squashed such pointless  _what if_  exercises. No point in wasting any energy.

A file under the directory on Miss Adler's phone called 'Secrets' revealed nearly a dozen of Moriarty's dark angels, some of whom she had been instrumental in recruiting. That data would be shared with the Americans, and Nielson served up as the sacrificial lamb to start with. Mycroft hoped that would set off a frenzied witch hunt in the US security services. At last he had an answer to the question that had been puzzling him since the CIA first turned up in Miss Adler's Belgravia flat. What did Nielson think was on that phone which would be worth risking that kind of smash and grab raid in a foreign ally's home territory? Now he knew- a fair amount of dirt on the CIA's own weaknesses, not to mention the name of three of their own people who were linked to Moriarty. The NSA was always delighted to have evidence that the Langley lot were useless. The Secretary for Homeland Security would intervene, and the resulting bun-fight might keep people's attention distracted from him. But Mycroft knew that if he played this right, he could also get more out of Moriarty before the man realised he had not won.

What he wanted was for Moriarty to give him the information he promised about the faked data lost somewhere in the CIA which would excuse the cancellation. With that data, it would be possible for Mycroft to pinpoint the actual weakness in the CIA- to find more culprits and then be seen as the hero- able to find the moles that the CIA had not been able to find. That would convert a near disaster into a personal triumph. Expensive in terms of budgetary cost, but preventing the PR disaster of having the flight uncovered after the explosion would earn some kudos. Topping that would be icing on the cake-being able to prove (yet again) that the British Intelligence services were better able to do their jobs than the Americans were, and that his team in particular were invaluable. If he played it right, then this could strengthen his position exponentially.

Of course, this would not be enough to defeat Moriarty. It would probably serve only to motivate the man more. And that made Mycroft wary.  _Even if I survive this round as a draw, or am lucky enough to win it, it's only one battle. The war continues._

And he knew now that Sherlock was a weakness that Moriarty would try to exploit again. If…. no _, when_  the Irishman failed this time, he'd be back for more. That made Mycroft very uncomfortable. Somehow, he was going to have to figure out a way to beat the man, to stop being forced always to  _react_ , rather than to strike first. And he was going to have to remove Sherlock from the firing line. This one had come way too close to success. The next one would have to be directly between Mycroft and Moriarty. No more proxy wars.  _Later… I will think about that tomorrow, once this battle is won._  As he looked out of the car window over the dawn coming up over the North Downs, he wondered where his brother was, and what he was thinking.

oOo

Less than an hour later Mycroft was standing at the window on the second floor of the Cabinet Office, looking out over the parade ground at Horseguards. Too early for more than the occasional early morning jogger, no smart business suited or uniformed men and women on their way to work yet. It was 7.03 and he was getting uncomfortable waiting for Moriarty's call.

Then the phone rang, and he took a deep breath. He checked that recording was on, and opened the connection. "Good Morning. I hope you have something useful to share with me." The tone was icy and professional, with just enough edge to it to make the man believe he was anxious. To be honest, Mycroft was not putting on much of an act.

There was an exaggerated sigh of contentment on the line. "Top o' the morning to you, too, Frosty. Did you have a sleepless night? I do hope so." The man put a little bit of condescension in the tone.

Mycroft's retort was crisp. "There isn't time to gloat. There is a very important someone I need to impress with the reason why I have just blown an enormous hole in his budget allocation for the year. It had better be a  _good_  reason, or your investment in me may prove to be rather short lived."

"Ohhh- are you  _rattled_? I like the sound of that. Promise me you'll do that again, the next time I put you on the spot."

Mycroft found himself trying to bite his tongue. He would have loved to have done nothing more than tell Moriarty the truth and then listen to the man's realisation he'd lost. But that momentary fantasy passed. He needed the truth.

"I hate repeating myself, but I will now as you seem to have misunderstood the urgency of my request. Send. The evidence. NOW."

"Not until you beg for it. Say, 'pretty please', or you won't get it."

Mycroft held the phone away from his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.  _This is insufferable._ "I will point out that you are the one who has gone to a great deal of trouble to turn me into your messenger. If you wish this investment to bear fruit,  _then give me the message!"_  This last was said through gritted teeth.

That provoked a snort. "You really don't know how to be gracious in defeat, do you? Ah, well, don't suppose you've had much experience of it. I will remedy that, never fear. Might as well make you realise just how dependent you are on me to save the skin of yours. Okaaay- get ready to catch this life-line. I'm sending you through a file reference number. It only makes sense to a CIA officer. I can guarantee that the file to which it refers does exist. Expertly produced and strategically placed. Bullet proof, it is. All you have to do is point the finger."

"You have to tell me what the file says. They will expect me to have seen it, or at least know what's in it, who it came from, what its provenance is. So, yes,  _please_ , I want the full details."

There was a snort from the other end. "You know something? You get a little  _whiney_  when you don't get things your way." Mycroft did not rise to the bait, letting a silence lengthen.

"And now you're sulking. Is there a pout on that aristocratic face? I suppose I can let you know a teensy bit. Just a little titbit - the buried file contains a cryptic message sent by a terrorist cell in the Swat valley- something that the CIA didn't understand, in the aftermath of a drone strike targeting a particular individual. There were casualties, but the US military reported the death of another suspect in the same attack- and the fact that this other person was in the room when it was hit by the missile could only have been known if the terrorists' own code was broken. If the Yanks had two grey cells between them they would have realised that it would tip off the fact to the terrorists that the code had been broken- but you know as well as I do that the American military can be a bit thick at times. It's enough of a smoking gun, and completely plausible that the CIA would miss it. You know, the left and right hands in America never could manage to work together."

Mycroft's retort came instantly. "So, by pointing this out, you are allowing me to be the  _ambidextrous_  hero." It was not only plausible, it was actually highly likely to have happened. "Any chance this is the real thing, rather than a plant by your people?"

That brought a full throated laugh from Moriarty. "You  _wish_ ; I'm not going to tell you, am I? Suffice to say, it will stand up to scrutiny."

"It had better, because it is certain to be scrutinised. And that leads me to another point. How am  _I_ supposed to have come across this information?"

"Use your imagination! That's for you to come up with. Fecking hell, man,  _you're_  the one who's supposed to be the spy mastermind here."

That brought a tiny smile to the lips of Mycroft. "On the contrary, I am just a minor official in the British Government."

"That better not be the case, Holmes. Because when I call this little  _favour_  in, you'd better bet it's going to need a  _major_  player to deliver what I want."

Mycroft glanced down at his phone to see that a new text had arrived. "I assume the text I've just received has the file reference?"

"You assume correctly. Now- go to work  _for me_ , Mycroft Holmes. Remember I will have eyes and ears in that meeting, so just watch what you say and how you say it, because  _Daddy will be listening."_

Mycroft allowed himself a tiny mental fantasy of just how Moriarty would react when he learned the truth about the incident.  _I am so going to enjoy puncturing this infernal egotist's balloon_.


	14. Chapter 14

It was a  _very_  private meeting of the COBRA committee. Unusually, there were no junior officials. In addition to the heads of the three UK security services, two elected politicians joined the table- the Prime Minister and the Cabinet Secretary. Two invited American guests filed into the room behind the usual members of the committee. Bringing up the rear was the National Security Adviser, Tom Rice, accompanied by the US Embassy's top CIA official. Mycroft took his seat in his usual place- down the table, next to the GCHQ Director. The only other civil servant in the room, Sir Thomas Weston, the Permanent Secretary of the Cabinet Office, sat to the left of the Cabinet Secretary. If Weston felt particularly nervous, he was doing well to mask it, keeping his head down and perusing the agenda for the meeting. He tried desperately to ignore the tiny microphone that was in the tasteful small brass  _Help for Heroes_  lapel badge worn on his pinstriped suit jacket lapel. It had arrived at his home address this morning by special courier with a note insisting that he wear it.

Tom Rice spoke as soon as the participants took their seats, before the formal meeting began- but he had the attention of everyone around the room. The National Security Adviser was a grey haired Afro American man, with an air of gravitas. "Prime Minister, thank you for inviting me to this meeting and allowing me to express my gratitude to you and your officials for saving us all from a very embarrassing situation." His Georgia accent drawled across the table in the Cabinet Office's Briefing Room A. "You will see from the file in front of each of you that has been prepared this morning that we have been forced to cancel the flight project. It is regrettable, but necessary to do so, in light of information that has been brought to our attention just last night. I can only thank the efforts of Mister Holmes and his Security Liaison Team that drew the connection between two pieces of information in the possession of the CIA."

Weston slipped his index finger under the red strip wrapper that sealed the file and marked it "Top Secret". As he snapped the wrapper off, it gave him a nasty paper cut, and he had to fish his handkerchief out of his pocket to stem the flow of blood. As a result, he was a little behind the rest of the table when it came to digesting whatever was in the file.

oOo

Only a mile away, in his suite at the top of the Carlton Tower Hotel, James Moriarty was sitting at the desk with a pair of Bosch headphones on, listening to every word.  _So far, so good._  Holmes was following the script to plan. He found himself wishing that he'd been able to put a camera in the buttonhole badge. Audio was just so annoyingly one dimensional. He heard the sounds of papers being shuffled, then a sharp intake of breath, followed by Weston's soft "what the  _hell?"_

The voice he recognised as the Prime Minister's was the first to speak. "Are you  _certain_  about this, gentlemen?" The man's posh boy accent irritated Jim, just as much as it did when he heard it on the television news.

Then the American Texas twang of the CIA officer's voice. "Yes, indeed. I have been reliably informed. But if you want the specifics, I'd like to defer to Mister Holmes, if I may, as he was the one to uncover the plot."

The room stilled. Moriarty heard the firm aristocratic tones of the Ice Man. "Thank you. Prime Minister, as you can see from the data in front of you, a bogus file was placed in the CIA records to suggest that the code was broken by the terrorist cell many months ago. In fact, the flight details were passed by a London-based CIA operative last night, one Robert Nielson. He is fairly junior in the pecking order, but as you can see from the photograph in the file, we understand that he is in the pay of James Moriarty, who was responsible for informing the terrorist cell about the details of the flight. The man in the photograph speaking with Nielson is Sebastian Moran, who works directly with Moriarty and we have issued a warrant for his arrest. The woman who took this photograph is in my custody now and we are processing a significant quantity of incriminating information that is on her camera phone. I believe it will be  _very_  revealing about the degree to which Moriarty's network has been recruiting on both sides of the Atlantic. The second sheet in the file lists ten we have identified so far, including three within the CIA. There are more, who will come to light when the bogus file is studied."

" _NO!"_ Jim ripped his headphones off and threw them violently across the suite. They hit the tall vase and a tasteful arrangement of arum lilies and chrysanthemums crashed onto the floor. He then proceeded across the room and kicked the vase until it shattered, then picked up every element of interior-decorated paraphernalia in the room and proceeded to smash them into smithereens.

"No!" An attractive bronze figurine crashed into the bezel cut mirror over the suite's fireplace, cracking it spectacularly.

"No!" A coffee table book of the latest London Fashion Week catwalk stars went sailing across the room to knock a brass standing reading lamp over by the sofa, "no, No, NO!"

When there was nothing portable left to throw, he let out a full throttled " _SEBASTIAN!"_

The muscular blond had been in the bathroom when the first yell made him put down the magazine he'd been reading. By the third crash, he was out the bathroom door, hands washed and dried. He'd come to recognise the difference between a temper-tantrum and someone actually threatening to harm his boss. This was definitely the former. Always best to let Jim have a chance to release some of the aggro before venturing out. He thought about the bill that the hotel was going to charge when he looked around the suite's living room at a scene of devastation.

"Yes?" It was mildly put. No need to provoke the man. He'd learned not to say things like "calm down." It only enraged Jim more, and generally ended up with Moran serving as a punch-bag for the Irishman. "What's happened?"

"What's  _happened?!_ That fecking  _bastard_! Holmes's managed to crack that bloody phone, somehow, and turned Adler into working for  _his_  team. I've been  _had._ " Jim sounded incredulous. " _ME!_  That ponced up bureaucrat has just served up the truth to the COBRA Committee, and told them all it's a plot by  _ME!_ "

Moran was stunned. He could not imagine the innocuous looking man he'd seen in the photos- the three-piece suited civil servant with the receding hairline- ever beating his boss. The man was just so…non-descript.

Jim's eyes were wide with rage. "Moran, you get on the phone and get that red haired bed-warmer of Adler's back into my clutches. I'll skin her alive first, and then send the shoes made out of her to Irene bloody Adler, once I get her out his frosty little fingers." He strode up and down the living room floor, his hands making fists. "Oh, and when I get Irenee into my hot hands again…well, it's going to take me  _weeks_  to figure out just how slowly I can kill her to pay her back for this."

Then Jim stopped pacing and glared at the sniper. "Look alive, idjit- because your name is on an arrest warrant, so you'll have to get out of the UK fast." The dark haired younger man took a deep breath and then smoothed his suit jacket down and pushed his hair back into place. "Plan B, then. Text alert to every one of the UK lot." He fished out his phone, opened the menu called 'contingency' and in a single keystroke, sent a single word text alert to over thirty people. Then he called his pilot. He'd be out of the country before the COBRA meeting finished. If he felt like it, he might let Moran hitch a ride with him.

oOo

Back in Cabinet Room A, Sir Thomas Weston was sweating. He was making a pretence of taking notes, but finding it hard to manage the shaking in his right hand. His usual careful handwriting was little more than a scrawl of panic. He listened with mounting horror to the tale being told by Holmes, how a link between a woman blackmailer and Moriarty had been uncovered six months before, then her death, which only later was discovered to have been faked. He wondered if it was even remotely possible to remove the lapel mike without being noticed. That's when the phone in his jacket pocket began to vibrate. Four times- an incoming text. He closed his eyes and hoped it wasn't from the person that he least wanted to hear from right now.

"When she re-appeared, we were informed by a source that will have to remain nameless." The Permanent Secretary guessed that Holmes must be referring to his brother. He'd seen the younger Holmes in the company of Irene Adler at the Gilbert Scott bar nearly seven months ago, and had been stupid enough to rag Holmes about it. Mycroft Holmes then described how that same "source" was able to break her cover, unlock the code to her phone, and turn her to working for their side, so that the full extent of the plot could be revealed.

"It is regrettable that we were only able to confirm a direct link between Moriarty and the terrorist cell in the Swat Valley yesterday evening. That was verified overnight by telephone surveillance at GCHQ, which has been tracking the incoming telephony for the terrorist cell. At that point, it became imperative to cancel the flight rather than run the risk of exposure. The considerable expense of the project, however, can now be written off against the detailed information we have received as a result of this operation. It covers  _far_  more than just the protagonists in the Flight 007 project."

The file on the table included excerpts from the phone's contents- photographs, recordings and data- "which is proving very helpful in the identification of Moriarty's corrupt officials on both sides of the Atlantic." Weston read the transcript of a call between Irene Adler and James Moriarty, and noticed another sheet covering one from Moriarty to Holmes himself. He tried to control his breathing.  _Did she have anything on that blasted phone about ME?_ He could not be sure. He had no idea what Moriarty might have said to her in the attempt to tackle Mycroft Holmes, whether his secret "insider" was still secret or not. A small trickle of sweat seemed to have pooled just at his trousers' waist band. Fortunately, it was in the back, under his jacket. He hoped that his forehead was not too shiny.

Down the table, Elizabeth Ffoukes noticed that the Permanent Secretary looked a little peaky. If she didn't know better, she might have thought he was coming down with the flu that was doing the rounds of Whitehall at the moment. She glanced over at Mycroft who was subjecting the Permanent Secretary to a forensic gaze. She caught Mycroft's eye and nodded, and was rewarded by a smile that touched the man's dark blue eyes but not his lips. She liked Mycroft; the Director General of MI 6 had found some money in her own budget to help out with BondAir, and had tried to play peacemaker some seven months ago when the CIA had been worried about the potential leak of an MOD code. That, combined with an almost pantomime collision of two separate operations at a certain house in Belgravia, had taken both her own diplomatic skills as well as those of Mycroft Holmes to put things right with the CIA. She was just as stunned as the rest of the table to see how the man's pursuit of Irene Adler had come good, just in time. But she did have a head start, as Mycroft had shared with her the contents of the file a couple of hours before the meeting started.  _Time to play my part._

Now she caught the eye of the PM and raised her eyebrows in a gentle request for the chance to speak next. He nodded briefly. "Mrs Ffoukes, you have a point you wish to make?"

"Prime Minister, we are all extremely grateful for the willingness of Mister Holmes to do what was necessary to trap Moriarty and reveal the weakness in the BondAir plan before it was too late." She looked across the table at Mycroft. She gave him a genuine smile and a tiny nod of appreciation. "However, and I hate to do this, but I really need to draw your attention to one specific line in the transcript excerpts from the recorded call in the file, the one on page 17, between Mister Holmes and Moriarty." Papers were shuffled and pages turned over. "Moriarty says that he has 'eyes and ears in that meeting, so just watch what you say and how you say it, because  _Daddy will be listening_.' That means that someone in the room now is providing information to this man."

A chilled silence fell in the room. Mycroft cleared his throat softly. "I believe I can answer that question now." He pushed his chair back and stood up, then walked around the table until he was standing beside the Permanent Secretary. "Sir Thomas, would you care to remove the small metal badge on your lapel, please?" The Old Etonian's hand was shaking as he complied, dropping the badge into the outstretched palm of his former schoolmate.

Mycroft smiled icily, "Thank you." He then opened his palm and sent the badge falling onto the floor where he smashed it with the heel of his shoe. "And now your phone, please." Wordlessly, the civil servant reached into his pocket and handed it over to Holmes, who scanned the single word text from an unidentified number:

**10.27 ICARUS***

As Mycroft read this, he politely continued speaking to the seated man, "you might like to leave the room now." Weston gathered his papers and scuttled out, without meeting the astonished eye of his boss, the Cabinet Minister. Mycroft calmly returned to his seat, turning the phone off and slipping it into his pocket. Looking down the table, he then said quietly "Feel free to continue the discussion now without fear of being overheard."

The American Embassy's CIA chief just started chuckling. "So Moriarty's been listening to us? Well, shit, you Brits just know how to keep your cool. If that happened in the Oval Office, we'd have had the guy dragged out in handcuffs, and he sure wouldn't be walking at the end of it. Don't you guys ever get pissed at anybody?"

The Prime Minister gave him a pointed stare. "Of course we get angry, Mister Rice. But right now, we are angry enough to want to  _do_  something about it. So, what's the plan? How are we going to win against this Moriarty?"

It was Elizabeth Ffoukes who answered first. "We are already working on it, sir." Having been tipped off by Mycroft at 8 o'clock, she'd pulled together a dossier. She pulled out copies from her briefcase and handed them around. "We've had this man on our radar for some time. This is the latest update." She gave them a half a minute to scan the paper.

The NSA Adviser's forehead furrowed as he read. He muttered under his breath, "A computer code?"

Mycroft answered. "Yes, sir. It is his latest attempt to subvert the attempt by both IBM and the EU project to create a new neuromorphic architecture. We also have reason to believe that the Trojan horse programme identified also has significance for most of the current legacy systems in use today. Apparently, he is auctioning the code to activate it to the highest bidder."

The Georgian was blunt. "So, who's going to take this guy out?"

The Prime Minister paled. The idea of discussing an assassination, even of a criminal, around a boardroom table in the Cabinet Office was not acceptable, even if the person who would have taken the minutes had left the room.

He was rescued by Holmes. "Unfortunately, that is not an option. If it was, then any one of the thirty other countries in which he operates in addition to yours and ours would have already done it. Those security services with fewer scruples and looser legal constraints that ours would have killed him years ago. But, he has a fail-safe plan to ensure no one ever tries that. If he is killed, then extreme punitive action will be taken- by our estimation this is most likely to be a dirty bomb in a number of major metropolitan centres in the country irresponsible enough to attempt such an action."

Rice growled, "And how credible is such a threat?"

" _Very_. James Moriarty has been in some way implicated with just about every major successful assassination and terrorist plot in the past decade and he is regularly consulted by every major organised crime network in the world. He has access to the weapons, people on the ground to do it, and motive, if any government attempts to stop him." Mycroft now passed around another sheet of paper. "This covers the headline events in a dossier over 200 pages long."

The NSA Adviser had not seen this sheet; there wasn't time during their pre-meeting. As his eyes picked out the key headlines that related to US activity, he nodded. "Okay, Mister Holmes, you certainly have my attention. Now what are you planning to do about this guy?"

"I'm working on it, I can assure you. What is on the phone will help. But, I do know that it will take time and stealth to counter this threat. And co-operation on both sides of the Atlantic is a good place to start."

"Well, you've got it. For certain. The special relationship is going to need us both to address this level of threat. I'll brief the US Ambassador here in London shortly, and the President when I get back to Washington tomorrow."

The Prime Minister decided it was time to reassert his control over the meeting. "Thank you, Mister Holmes. I am sure that our American allies will now recognise the considerable advantages of working together on this mutual threat. This item will remain on future agendas for this committee until further notice. Now shall we move onto the situation in the Middle East, please?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Icarus in Greek legend was the man who strapped on wings to fly but they melted when he got too near the sun. Moriarty's dark angels will soon be discovering that their wings will melt when their relationship with him is discovered….


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now for a bit of a diversion, but you will begin to understand why by the end... and it explains Mycroft's text to Sherlock in the previous Chapter.

In the late afternoon light, it took a while for him to find the cuts, but, eventually, his fingers traced the wounds in the tree bark. In the decades that had passed since the initials were first carved, the bark had healed over a bit, leaving a ghostly raised surface on either side of the slices. Still the letters were there. The S had been the hardest; the curves were more challenging than the straight lines of the H. The pen knife, a gift from Mycroft, had not been a very good chisel. Still, the lone copper beech in the corner of the barley field was where he left his mark all those years ago, the first time he passed this way.

Sherlock was in the foothills of the Sussex Downs. He'd picked up the Downs Link footpath for a while, but was now to the east of it, with just one field in front of him before Woolpit Wood. On the other side of that was a break in the woods that covered the South Downs- a narrow passage of pasture running north between the hills, a natural alley way that ended in the village of Peaslake. He'd been walking for a night and a day, and needed to rest. His muscles had adapted to the rhythm of fast walking on soft tracks. After years of London's pavements, his shin muscles were strong and he relished feeling the more pliant earth with its unevenness beneath his boots. The physical repetition was soothing, a form of self-stimulation that passed unnoticed should anyone have been watching. He'd become better at that sort of disguise over the years. The nine year old who stopped here was less adept.

He pulled the water bottle from his coat pocket and opened it. He'd have to brave civilisation tomorrow to get another. Probably on the outskirts of Dorking, before he found the watercourse of the Mole River and used it to travel under the M25. He finished the water, and then he sat with his back to the tree and let his thoughts drift back to the last time he stopped here.

oOo

He was nine. His mother later described it as his "running away from home". He didn't see it as that, at the time. More a case of running  _to_  some place, to a certain someone, and away from another person. It was late May, 1988. His mother had gone to France for ten days "to get some sun" after the cold, wet spring. She'd not been well, and wanted to be cosseted by relatives in Provence, who would look after her. Mycroft was in his last term at Eton, already getting ready for next September at Oxford. Sherlock had been left in the care of Mrs Walters and for three days, and things had gone well enough. His tutors came in every day, and when they weren't around, he experimented with his chemistry set.

Then his father came home from a business trip. That night he made Sherlock have dinner with him, which made him anxious. His father always made him anxious, especially when he didn't have Mummy or Mycroft with him to give him some grounding. The nine-year old didn't know why he always felt even less able to control things when his father was around. The tall forbidding figure was always  _watching_  him,  _judging_  him. And that made him anxious, which meant that the things he didn't like about Sherlock became even more evident. He'd learned over the years to stop flapping his hands and rocking, but the continuous rubbing of his thumb over the first knuckle of his left hand's index finger was now being stared at by his father.

"You won't be able to use a knife and fork properly if you don't stop that." The deep baritone from across the table startled the boy, and he almost dropped his fork. He didn't look up from his plate, but focussed on the swirling pattern around the edge of the fine china plate.

"When someone speaks to you, boy, it is expected that you will have a reply."

"Yes, Father" was all he could manage, in a timid voice.

"Say something interesting, Sherlock, if you are even remotely capable of it."

That made the boy pause, and he looked at the barely touched fillet of plaice on his plate. What would be interesting to his father? What Sherlock was interested in had never pleased his father. He had years of experience in being asked to talk about something and then, when he finally had, being told to "shut up. I was hoping for a conversation, not a lecture about something so tediously boring."

He remembered his mother's advice. "Sherlock, don't just talk  _at_  people. Conversation involves asking questions and listening to the answers. And questions are not _always_ about trying to get more data. Try asking people about what they are doing or thinking."

So, he tried with his father. He looked out the window behind where his father was sitting at the head of the table- it was the nearest he could get to making eye contact. "When are you going to tell mother about your girlfriend?"

There was a pause. "What do you mean,  _girlfriend_?" It was said with some emphasis on the last word.

Sherlock tried not to stammer. "I th..thought that's what you call someone that you do things with. The lady you went to Singapore with. She works for you. She's got long blonde hair."

"How do you know about her?"

He could see through his peripheral vision that his father had put down his fork and was now glaring ferociously at him. Sherlock put his left hand under the table and started rubbing his thumb against his finger very hard.

" _HOW DO YOU KNOW?"_  This was almost but not quite shouted at him.

He ducked his head away from the noise, but answered as best he could. "I can  _see_. There's a long blonde hair on your jacket. Not Mummy's-  _her_  hair is like mine, dark and wavy. That one's long and straight and blonde- probably dyed, not a natural colour. You left stuff from your jacket pocket on the desk this afternoon, including two plane seat ticket stubs, yours and another one in the name of Margaret James. You've spoken to her on the phone a lot- before supper I saw you in the study, you called her Meggie. I know you were talking to her, because your face goes all…funny- kind of soft- when you are talking to her. You were  _smiling_. You don't do that with Mummy. And your coat and jacket smell of that woman's perfume, at least I think it is, because it isn't Mummy's. She uses  _Joy_ , by Arpege, and that woman's smells different. My guess is that it's Chanel Number Five, because that was on the duty free receipt that was also on your desk, along with the receipt for The Shangri-La Hotel on Orchard Road, where you had a Garden Suite, and dinner for two on room service. It was all there on the hotel bill. So I think you have a girlfriend and her name is Margaret James, but you call her Meggie. When are you going to tell Mummy?"

While he was saying all this, he watched his father out of the corner of his eye. The man put his knife down. Then his napkin came out of his lap to be flung onto the table. He stood and came around the table to where Sherlock was sitting.

"Shut up, boy. You are  _wrong_  and you are never, ever to say such things to me, or repeat such filthy lies to your mother, ever. Do you understand me?" His voice was tight and angry.

But Sherlock was confused. He was  _right_. He knew he was. His mother had explained about  _friends_ , about how men and women became good friends, and then became a couple. He knew all the biology of it; read the booklets and understood them. He watched the Gamekeeper's dogs, the farm animals. Reproduction wasn't a mystery. He couldn't understand why his father was trying to pretend it wasn't happening with this woman. "No, sir, I don't understand. Does it mean you are just _friends_ , and that you are not doing sex things with her?"

Because he wasn't watching his father's face, he didn't see the blow coming. The back of his father's hand connected with the side of Sherlock's face and the force of it knocked him out of the chair and onto the floor. Stunned, he looked up at the enraged man, then tried to scrabble backwards under the table and some sort of protection.

"You will  _never_ ,  _ever_  make such a stupid mistake again, boy. If you breathe one word of this to anyone, then I will ensure that you regret it. In fact, as soon as your mother is back from France, I will talk to her about sending you away to a school. You'll never amount to anything. Time you were locked up, you useless piece of rubbish." His father stormed out of the room.

The nine-year old Sherlock got up and fled. Back upstairs to his bedroom where he sat in the dark. He'd done something very wrong; he knew that, but didn't understand what it was. His father had never hit him before. He reached up and felt the swelling on his cheek. It was sore and it burned; the skin felt hot. He wondered why. He thought he should research that- read about what caused it to do what it was doing now. Would it be like the time he fell out of the tree? Did the pain mean something was broken, like his collarbone had been then? He didn't know about bones in the face.

He kept thinking about what his father said about being sent away to school. It was something he'd threatened to do in the past, but his mother had always argued against it.  _Mummy will be angry with me if what I have done means Father sends me away._  To be "locked up"…what did that mean? That's not what Mycroft's school was like. He'd pestered his brother to tell him all about what Eton was like. A different kind of school then, someplace where they would lock him up. He began to worry. What would happen if his father did it before his mother got back from France? There was no one here to stop his father. He began to get scared.

The house around him stilled. He heard doors shut, the quiet voice of Mrs Walters saying goodnight to the House staff, then feet on stairs. He was up in the east wing of the house. His father's room was on the floor below on the central part. If Sherlock was very quiet, he could get out of the house. Be gone before his father could come in the morning to send him away to this school where he'd be locked up. He waited until he couldn't bear it any longer, then crept down the back stairs to the dark kitchen. He took an apple and filled an empty bottle with water from the tap. Then put on his mac that was hanging by a hook in the boot room, unbolted the door and fled into the night.

He knew he couldn't get to his mother in France, so he headed for the only one he thought might be able to argue against his father's plans. He knew where Eton was, he had once carefully traced the way there on a series of maps. And that was where he would go now. If Dick Whittington had walked to London, then so could he. His brother would know what to do.

oOo

That thought raised a rueful smile on face of the older man now sitting with his back to the beech tree. He was in a worse bind now than he had been all those years ago. Then he thought Mycroft was his saviour. Now he knew better. He needed to think about that problem he had parked in the back of his mind when he set out from the house the night before. He'd been procrastinating too long.  _Time to stop stalling._

The final problem was simple enough. Any rational plan to take Moriarty down would inevitably fail. His contingency plans had been well constructed with those threats in mind. The consulting criminal was simply too smart; he'd figured out every angle that a security service or police force would or could use. Either an arrest or an assassination by any one of the thirty two countries where he operated – or anywhere else in the world, for that matter- would simple trigger too many consequences for any government to be willing to take the risk. Mycroft would not be able to figure a way out of this.

So, what was left? Sherlock's solution to any problem was to eliminate the impossibilities, and then whatever was left, however improbable, would be the way to do it. As he saw it, there were two improbable, but technically possible solutions. The first is that Moriarty would himself dismantle his "dead man's switches"- that is, cancel his own contingency plans. Improbable in the extreme; it would be tantamount to handing all those governments a loaded gun and sending an embossed invitation to shoot him. The man would have to be suicidal to do it. For a moment, he idly wondered what could drive a man like Moriarty to take his own life. He snorted,  _losing_. If that insufferable ego came to realise he wasn't the smartest thing on the planet, that might cause his whole sense of self-worth to crumble. But that was a circular argument. The only way to make him believe he'd lost was to make him lose- so, another route was needed, to make him lose.

The second possibility was that someone else outside of a government- a rival criminal- could eliminate Moriarty, and take over the man's network at the same time, ensuring that those plans were never put into effect. This was improbable, too. He'd never met a criminal as intelligent as Moriarty and he hoped he never would.

Both of these "solutions" seemed improbable. Was there a third alternative? A way to make Moriarty's own network doubt his sanity or his capacity, so that when he tried to invoke his safety net, they would not oblige? But how could that be done? He closed his eyes and disappeared into his Mind Palace. This would take some serious thinking.


	16. Chapter 16

John tried to respect his flatmate's privacy. Lord knows, he'd been really pissed off when Sherlock repeatedly crashed his dates, so the idea of intruding now on whatever he might be getting up to with Irene Adler was not something that the doctor relished.

So, in the morning, he checked to make sure Sherlock had not been and gone- no sign. No text either. So, he'd gone to work as usual; the eight hour training stint at UCLH's Emergency Department started at nine. He'd walked there- just down Baker Street to Marylebone Road and then along it until he passed the private Princess Grace Hospital, where the street became the Euston Road, then on past another couple of cross streets until he passed the Portland Hospital for Women and Babies. Past the bottom of Regent's Park and then across Tottenham Park Road, he then came to the back door of the new hospital built in 2005. His shift was in the Emergency Department, working in triage to identify patients who needed to be referred to the Acute Medical Unit- a 56 bed ward upstairs where more intensive testing and diagnostic tools were available. It kept him focused- making a mistake on diagnosis could cost the hospital a lot in unnecessary tests; but, get it wrong and it could cost the patient their life. So, he stopped thinking about his flatmate.

Just after noon, when he took his first break, he went outside to see if he'd been sent a text. Nothing. He sighed. Worried, he decided to send something, just to see if his friend was back at Baker Street yet.

**12.16pm Shift over at 5. Shall I bring Chinese?**

He walked over to Euston station to get something to eat at the M&S food shop- their sandwiches were actually edible, and he would be able to have his phone on longer than if he ate at the UCLH canteen. He ate the sandwich in the little park that was between Euston Road and the queue of buses picking up at the rail station. He kept glancing at his phone while he ate.

He'd been trying to come to terms with the idea that Sherlock might actually be attracted to Irene Adler. He'd never seen any sign of sexual interest in anyone from his flatmate, but he was willing to admit that might be because the right woman had never appeared on the scene. He'd grown used to thinking of Sherlock as asexual, in part because his flatmate seemed totally oblivious to such matters, part of the other-worldly manner of his lifestyle.

 _Who am I to judge?_ It wasn't like the two of them had ever talked about such things. Not after his embarrassing 'Got a girlfriend?' on their very first night. He'd kept well away from the topic- which was unusual after his years in the military. In an environment inhabited mostly by men who were far away from loved ones and their families, sex was an inevitable topic of frequent discussion. And John was as red-blooded a male as the rest, he'd had relationships enough to earn him the soubriquet of "Three Continents Watson"- a joke made by one of his squad, due to John's willingness to seek comfort in the arms of women in all of his postings- Sierra Leone in Africa, Germany for the continent of Europe, and of course finally in Afghanistan.

Over the two and a bit years with Sherlock, however, John had simply never talked about such things. During the occasional meet-up in a pub with his old Army mates or rugby friends, the occasional pint with the Yarders, there were always other things to catch up on, so even then it was pretty subdued.

He tossed the last corner of crust to the pigeons and watched them argue over it. One of the big male pigeons ignored the crust and kept bobbing and strutting his stuff in front of a hen pigeon. That made John think about how sex complicated everything. He glanced at his phone again, and his brow wrinkled. No response. Not for the first time since last night, John began to wonder if there might be another explanation for Sherlock's absence. Perhaps the 'killers' that Irene mentioned had arrived in his absence and taken the two of them away? He was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the possibility that what might be a date could turn out to be something else entirely.

**12.47 Are you too 'tied up' to answer? If so, text and tell me to piss off.**

No reply by the time he had to go back to work. By tea time, John was getting even more worried. In between patients, he nipped to the loo, then down the stairs and into the courtyard to check his phone. Still no reply.  _To hell with it._  If he was wrong, Sherlock would not be happy with his next decision. But it was unlike Sherlock not to text back, even if it was just a rude reply. He hit speed dial.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. How can I help?" Mycroft's PA answered.

John sighed. "I suppose that means Mycroft is unavailable?"

"Yes, indeed, Doctor. Your powers of deduction are improving."

He snapped back. "Yeah well, I get enough grief from the two Holmes brothers not to have you jump on the bandwagon, so a little less sarcasm would be appreciated."

"I meant what I said; how can I help?" She was calmness personified. That made John smile a bit. Putting up with Mycroft and dealing with Sherlock's sarkiness would make her virtually bombproof. But then the smile died as he remembered the reason why he called.

"You can tell me that Sherlock is fine and that I should be minding my own business. Or you could tell me that he's in trouble. I'd just like to know."

There was a pause. Then, "I wish I knew the answer to that, too, Doctor Watson. Sherlock is currently…off our radar. And Mister Holmes is otherwise engaged, and will be for some time. What I can say is that he is aware of his brother's…disappearance, and does not appear to be unduly troubled by it. You may take what comfort you may from that fact."

 _Great._ "Are the two of them in the middle of one of their spats?"

She paused again. And John heard a sigh on the other end. "Doctor Watson, you can appreciate that I am somewhere between a rock and a hard place here. I can't tell you much, but I do know that it has been a  _very_  difficult night for both of them."

 _Uh oh._  "And would that difficulty between them have anything to do with a certain Miss Irene Adler?"

"You might say that. I couldn't possibly comment."

 _Shit._  "Is Sherlock still with the lady in question?"

"Doctor Watson, you are  _fishing._ "

"Yes. Because I am worried about Sherlock and want to know that he hasn't ended up kidnapped, tied up, or otherwise indisposed, at least not unwillingly, by  _either_ Irene Adler or Mycroft."

He heard her chuckle. "He's on his own, Doctor, in the wind. The lady who is no lady had something of a falling out with both of the Holmes brothers and is now no longer an issue for either of them. And that is the only thing I can say. You will just have to be patient."

He sighed. "Well, thanks for that. At least, I think so. Tell your boss that if he thinks I should be worried, to give me a call."

"Of course. Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

oOo

When Sherlock came out of his Mind Palace, he was startled to realise just how dark it was. He must have been preoccupied for hours. He also realised that his legs and bottom were numb from both cold and lack of circulation. He stood up and grimaced as pins and needles were felt all down both legs. He tried to stamp about a bit to get the blood flowing. He was shivering too. The moon was up- it came out from behind a scudding cloud. That meant it was at least two o'clock in the morning, possibly later. He began to stretch his neck and arm muscles, feeling the aches and pains from muscles that had been held in one position for two long. Once he could feel his legs again properly, he set off, hoping a rapid stride would warm him up.

The time in his Mind Palace had paid off. He had the semblance of an approach. He couldn't call it a plan. Anything that looked like a plan would have been anticipated by Moriarty and blocked by some contingency arrangement or another. In fact, that is what made the Irishman vulnerable to someone like him.

Sherlock had found a way to raise the game to a whole new level. If he could keep things totally flexible, then it would be possible to improvise a way to trap the man. It had to be undetectable to someone looking for patterns. So, a series of interlinked modules would be put into place. One module would involve making Moriarty's own network wary of his sanity- make him look dangerously out of control, obsessed to the point of recklessness. They needed to see that he wasn't invincible. He'd need help on that one, but he knew just where to get it now. Making Moriarty take unreasonable risks would take some real provocation, and some careful seeding of the man's borderline obsessions. That meant taking risks himself. He knew that his brother would be vehemently opposed to such an idea. But Sherlock knew that if Moriarty's own network didn't trust him, then they might be weaned away by someone else.

That was the second module. He would create a competitor, someone in the network with enough brains and clout to challenge for the leadership when the man went off the rails. A virtual someone to argue that the contingency plan benefited only Moriarty, and they could ignore his orders, because he was a failure. It would be tricky, but he had some ideas about how to create such a persona, with a viable back story, and insert that person into the network. His brother would certainly not approve.  _Tough_.

Sherlock crossed to the corner of the field where there was a stile. How convenient- since his last trip through here, the county council must have laid down the law to the landowners about public footpaths being maintained and properly signposted. He didn't need to keep drawing on the topographical map- the way was clearly marked, so that he didn't have to struggle to follow it. The moonlight showed the mowed strip right through the young wheat.

Giving less thought to his passage through the countryside gave him more time to think. To make Moriarty seen as fallible, Sherlock needed to get in his face. Take on high profile cases that had the consulting criminal's fingerprints all over them; that would undermine client trust in him, and worry his network that the man was losing his touch. It would make Mycroft apoplectic- putting himself into the direct line of fire, rather than his brother. The git had always assumed he was better able to defeat Moriarty. He was wrong, and the latest fiasco was proof of that.

That was another module-a sort of "block Mycroft programme". Sherlock would have to ensure that Mycroft was hamstrung, recused and kept out of the way. He thought now he might be able to achieve that without damaging his brother's career in the long run.

He'd also have to have contingency plans of his own- 'what if?' scenarios were needed to give himself room to manoeuver if Moriarty shifted the ground unexpectedly. He had some ideas about those; time to make them more concrete, conduct a few trial runs, see who could be trusted to do things without asking too much about why. The Homeless network was the logical place to start.

It would take time, but so long as he used it wisely, and kept Moriarty at arms' length for a couple of months, then he would be ready. Depending on what happened, then Sherlock could bring any one of the modules into play. It was sort of a corelet principle- create interlocking programmes that could be adjusted depending on circumstances and how they developed. It didn't matter when he accessed them, the plans were not sequentially dependent. His approach applied the concepts of fuzzy logic- and if he was lucky, because of that, it would not be noticed by the Irishman until too late.

As he climbed the fence that let him into the long and thin defile through the hills, he smiled at the thought that his brother would be so totally  _furious_  when he found out. But, he knew just how to fix that now, so he couldn't interfere. And when it was over, and Moriarty was brought down, then his brother would forgive him. Success would be its own reward, and he would not begrudge him that.

John would be harder, much harder. Even if he was successful, to be so, Sherlock would need to keep a lot of secrets from his friend. Beating Moriarty would not be seen by John as more important than telling the truth and letting him in on it.  _But I cannot risk your life._  John was Sherlock's weakness, and Moriarty knew it. Even if John ended up hating him, that would be acceptable, because dead people can't hate someone. The alternative was just simply not acceptable.

In fact, just that sort of public break-up of their friendship would make John be less of a target. He felt a pang of regret – _where did that come from?_ – but stifled it. He had just watched The Woman destroyed, crushed between Moriarty and Mycroft, all because Kate had been held hostage. If he needed a lesson in the dangers of love, she had given it to him. He'd meant every word of what he said to her in front of Mycroft, only his brother didn't know the subtext running under it.

Sherlock had been surprised at her attempt at seduction in front of the fire in 221b. Had Moriarty required it of her? Was it part of his "Virgin" jibe? Or was she just so _accomplished_  at sexual contact that she found her body responding to his in that way? He was not wrong; he had detected the signs of arousal. Perhaps, she was right- for her, "brainy was the new sexy" and it was her way of appreciating him. In any case, it made him realise that she had used the first four letters of his name as her passcode. Yes, love was involved- but less for him than his brother would have realised. Irene knew that Sherlock held the means to save the person she really loved- Kate. So, he had been used.

The love that Irene had for Kate had opened her to being manipulated by Moriarty. And he realised that along the way, The Woman had come to believe that Sherlock was not part of the problem, but rather part of the solution for her. He admitted that he found her intelligence interesting. The fact that she operated so well in the world of sexual and emotional attraction intrigued him- how does she  _do_  that? It was such an unknown area for him; he struggled at times to understand people even after years of knowing them; Irene Adler deduced what they liked and what they didn't like within moments of meeting them. To Sherlock, it was a kind of alchemy, and he'd been willing to meet privately with her, to try to understand her better. He'd always been accused of being manipulative, but he knew he was in the presence of a master ( _she'd prefer the term 'mistress', I'm sure_ ) with Irene. She had a similar curiosity about him, and that had developed into …something. What, he wasn't entirely sure. An attraction, yes. Mutual respect, yes. But not "friendship", at least not in the way he and John were a part of each other now.

His and Irene's tactical alliance held until Moriarty played the final card and she was forced to choose between Sherlock and Kate. It was no contest, but he did not blame her for that. If he'd been given the same choice- deliver Irene in order to save John's life, he would not have hesitated either. He just hoped that the show in the dining room had convinced Mycroft to use her, rather than punish her.

He could see the village of Peaslake in the distance. By dawn, he should be in the North Downs, and would then branch right onto the North Downs Way, then to the Mole River and north towards London, away from the track that had taken him all those years ago to Eton. This time he was finally breaking free of his brother, and able to shape his own future. He felt ready.


	17. Chapter 17

"Miss Adler, I trust you are as comfortable as you can be in these circumstances?" The question was politely phrased. Irene looked at the man in the three piece suit who had uttered it to her and wondered if it was attempt to be ironic.

"Well, Mister Holmes, I can't say this is a five star hotel. And I'm not exactly used to being asked to strip naked and endure a cavity search. Just doesn't happen in the places I'm used to frequenting. Not to mention the rather  _fetching_  concept they have here of suitable clothing." She fingered the synthetic fabric of the prison jumpsuit she was wearing. "And when it comes to  _shoes_ , well, I am afraid that prison grey just isn't my colour," gesturing at the flat canvas slip-ons. Irene kept her tone mocking and light. No need to provoke him until she knew how his attempt to foil Moriarty had gone.

He gave a bland smile back. They were sitting across from one another in what was clearly an interrogation room. She'd been brought to the Pine Woods facility by Carlton two days ago. It had been about a two hour drive from the Holmes Estate by her estimation, but it was hard to be certain, because she had neither a watch, nor eyes to watch the road during their journey- the tight blindfold had seen to that.

"So, how've  _you_ got along over the last two days? Make any progress?"

"Yes, Miss Adler, I did. Your evidence has proved useful to me. Moriarty now knows that he has lost this battle, and at some considerable expense to his network. I have no doubt that he will feel aggrieved at you personally, for your part in that."

"You know just what to say to please a girl, don't you, Mister Holmes?" This time the sarcasm was laid on thicker by Irene. "So, having ensured that he will want to kill me, are you going to hand me over to him, now that I am no longer of any use to you?"

"There is nothing to be gained by me in so doing. Why should I allow him the pleasure?"

Irene once again realised that James Moriarty's name for Mycroft Holmes was apt. I _ceman, indeed. "_ Then what  _do_  you intend to do with me?"

"Keep you safe for a little while longer. My people are working on the phone contents now. No doubt, there will be questions that need answering. When we no longer have need of you, then we will let you go. In what manner we do that depends on your answers to those questions."

"And what's  _really_  in it for me to answer those questions?"

"There is such a thing as building good will, Miss Adler, something that you would be well advised to do, given your situation."

She decided a diversionary tactic was needed. "How's Sherlock? Recovered from air sickness yet? How did you manage to conceal his involvement in the Flight 007 debacle from the powers that be?"

She faced a pair of steely eyes. "That is no longer your concern, Miss Adler.  _He_ is no longer your concern. When I do release you, and I will at some point, it will be under the strict proviso that you have no further contact with my brother of any kind. Should I find that rule being broken, then I will have no compunctions at all about telling James Moriarty exactly where you are. In fact, I might even send the man an engraved invitation."

That provoked a smirk. "Has anyone ever told you that you are a little  _overprotective_  of your little brother? He is not a  _child_ , I can assure you." She made the comment in a suggestive tone, as if in possession of conclusive proof that Sherlock was a capable and willing partner in a rather  _adult_  relationship.

"You can stop the innuendo, Miss Adler. I know my brother. While I am sure he will have been ...fascinated… by you, I know that the attraction was cerebral and is now over. You don't know my brother, so let me explain something. He once caught an adder on the estate, and kept it in a bottle for a week. He was intrigued by it, in part because it looked so innocuous and yet had such a deadly venom. He caught mice to feed it so he could watch how it killed its prey. When he got bored of watching it, he dissected it to discover how the venom injection through the snake's fangs worked. I think he still has the skeleton of it in his flat on Baker Street. He does that sometimes- gets distracted by dangerous creatures. He gets over it, moves onto another obsession."

That's when Irene realised that Mycroft Holmes didn't really understand his brother. Not the way she did, anyway. She supposed that it would be a handicap to have all that  _history_  to deal with; lots of baggage in their relationship, no doubt. The Sherlock she knew was not so…incapable as his brother seemed to think he was. In fact, this time around, Irene had been impressed. Sherlock seemed calmer, more in control, more thoughtful and less impulsive than seven months ago. And, God, smarter, too; smart enough to figure out the password to the phone, when he'd not been able to for months.  _Wonder what happened in the interval?_  While she'd been busy trying to hide with Kate, he'd clearly been sorting some things out.  _Look out, big brother. Sherlock may yet surprise you._

But she had no illusions about the chance to see that for herself. She'd spent a sleepless night at the Holmes estate, sitting wrapped up in a sheet ( _I can see the appeal now, Sherlock)_ , thinking everything through _._ When the elder Holmes let her out, and she knew he would eventually, she'd have to run fast and bury herself deep. Given the situation, she had taken the painful decision to leave Kate waiting alone at the rendezvous point. Given the likelihood that Moriarty would catch up with Irene at some point, sooner or later, it would be madness to lead him to her.  _I'm sorry, Love; I just can't bear the thought of you being killed in front of my eyes._  She knew Moriarty well enough to know that is exactly what he would do. So, Irene would head east- somewhere totally unexpected. She loved Kate enough to say goodbye to her for good, and that surprised her. She'd always thought her selfishness would not allow such a sacrifice. The thought of Kate alive but alone was easier to bear somehow. She felt her eyes tearing up at the thought of how much she would miss her.

"Are you alright, Miss Adler; you seem…distressed." Coolly, Mycroft was watching her. And probably concluding the wrong thing, that she was upset by the idea that Sherlock would be off limits in the future.  _Let him think what he wants. I don't care, as long as it isn't the truth. I trust Sherlock more than his own brother does._  She knew she was in protective custody because of the way that Sherlock had manipulated Mycroft into thinking he despised her.  _What does Sherlock really think?_ She didn't know.

oOo

John Watson was wrestling with the same question. He was half dozing in his chair, after a long shift at the Urgent Care Unit, when he heard the front door onto Baker Street bang shut. He waited, listening to see if it was Mrs Hudson, back from the bingo she went to on Tuesday nights with Mrs Turner next door. Then he heard the first footstep on the stairs and knew from the sound of it that Sherlock was home. The doctor took a deep breath and smiled.  _At last; the prodigal returns._

As the seventh step creaked its traditional welcome, John wondered what his flatmate's mood would be. He'd texted John yesterday morning, a somewhat cryptic but reassuring proof of life.

**2.34pm Walking home to Baker Street, just passed Dorking. Phone off to save battery. SH**

_Home from where?_  John had to look up where Dorking was; to him it was just a station on a rail line somewhere south of London. Then he spent a bit of time on Google Earth, trying to figure out where Sherlock might have come from and which route he would take back to London, not to mention why. Given what  _not_ Anthea had said, John guessed that Sherlock would have probably started at the estate in West Sussex. John realised then that his friend had not called that place "home"; Baker Street had usurped pride of place. That fact pleased John immensely, although he would have to be hard pressed to admit it to anyone.

With Sherlock's phone off, there wasn't much reason to text back, but later that evening, John had done so anyway.

**11.23pm Rivers! Arun-North-Mole- Ember- Thames at Hampton Court?**

This morning when he looked at his phone, there was a reply.

**04.12am The Science of Deduction- you're learning. SH**

That brought a smile to John's face that lasted throughout a particularly busy morning shift.

The boots now clumping on the wooden floor from the stair landing towards the living room were not Sherlock's usual soft leather shoes, so John was prepared for a difference in clothing when the door opened. But the sight of the tall brunet in dark tight jeans and a navy cabled pullover, with a torn waxed cotton coat that had seen better days, as well as muddy hiking boots- well, the effect was very  _county_ , not city. The battered tweed flat cap completed the picture.

The doctor affected nonchalance. "So, fancied a walk, then?"

"Hm." The hat was tossed onto the side table, along with keys, phone and wallet. The coat came off and took its place on a peg beside the Belstaff, which had been delivered by one of Mycroft's minions with the suit he'd left behind. Sherlock then walked over to his chair and sank down into it, bending over his boots to untie them and wrench them off. A moment later, the socks followed and then he pushed his bare feet toward the fire, leaning back and closing his eyes with a contented sigh.

John got up. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"Hmm."

The doctor took that as a yes. "Piece of toast?"

"Even better."

When the toast and tea were delivered, John took his seat again. "Want to talk about it?"

With his mouth full of toast, Sherlock shook his head. After swallowing that bite, he said, "Can't. Mycroft would have kittens. Classified and all that silliness."

"You figured out the phone password then?"

Sherlock looked amused. "Your powers of deduction  _are_  improving."

"Out of curiosity, what was it?"

His flatmate smirked. "That shall have to remain secret, John. But, it proved her undoing."

"Likely to see The Woman again, are we?"

"Doubt it; she's now in custody and being debriefed by Mycroft's minions, so  _highly_  unlikely. Anyway, that's all over. Not worth wasting any more time talking about it." After another mouthful of toast, Sherlock washed it down with a long pull at his mug of tea. Then, re-energised, he said "Pass me your laptop; I want to check if there's anything new on the website in the way of a potential case."

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, we all know better! But from John's point of view, he would have thought the Scandal in Belgravia was over. It was only several months later that Miss Adler would reappear in Sherlock's life and then even longer before John learned of her fate. Those events will be covered in the right time sequence in my next story, Fallen Angel, which will start next week. There will be additions, too, to Got My Eye on You as the two stories begin to match timelines. And, I think I just might start posting a new series, called Periodic Tales.


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